


ONE

by YKET



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demons, Elves, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fantasy, Forced Marriage, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-12 06:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 84,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19941883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YKET/pseuds/YKET
Summary: When foreign elves threaten total annihilation, King Silveryn is forced to look for allies. And who could be better protectors than the fire-spitting demons that inhabit the neighboring mountain? A political marriage seems like a great way to seal the deal, but what if their king is not interested in the princess and instead asks for the hand of the royal nephew? What ensues is a clash of cultures and personalities, a great war and a greater love.





	1. Chapter 1

The old chengael tree Maegorn was sitting in the crown of was very loud: borer bugs were grinding at its bark, crickets buzzed among the branches, a chimp was munching on the leaves and a babirusa pig was mauling the roots. The cacophony of noises addled Maegorn’s head and muddled his thoughts and it was exactly what he needed. On a night like this, when the air was stiflingly humid and the sky was sickeningly clear, he needed his mind free – but not so that he would fall asleep. Sleep would only bring nightmares.

What if someone found out that this was what had brought him so deep into the jungle this late at night? That general Maegorn Stone-Wall, the son of the hero of Frawvanna, the nephew of King Silveryn was afraid of nightmares? Would he be laughed at? Mocked? Tagged down?

The wind changed, and two new sounds sneaked into the familiar soothing chaos around Maegorn. The first was ferocious chomping of a faraway predator having a feast, a noise quite common on the battleground the jungle turned into at night. Enjoy your meal, my friend. Except… this time there was something else there, too. Soft, like the slither of silk against the skin. A whispering moan, but not of pleasure. A moan of someone who lacked life for a louder noise.

Maegorn scrambled up, his body tensing and his heart rate soaring. The old war-time instincts woke in an instant. Like a calculating hunter, they had only been playing dead. Now that they smelled blood, they sprang up, almost catapulting him towards the cries. Maegorn exhaled, calming his raging temper: nothing good could come out of a scamper. A moment passed as he gave a whistle to alert the sentries - kingfisher’s call, a high-pitched tune, ending in a strident vibration, like a toy rattle. There was no response - his pursuit of privacy had turned against him. How long would it take him to get back to the border and call the guards? Reach his house and, armed with his double swords, chase away the attacker?

A pained moan interrupted his calculations. It was softer than the one before it. Weaker. Deathlier. Maegorn cursed, then turned towards the cries and bounced off the branch.

The neighboring ash was old, its bark crumbled when he grabbed at it, but before he could slip, he had already pushed off towards the young chengael behind it and then the one after that. He moved swiftly forward, from one tree to another, his leaps exact and effortless, his mind needing no instructions, his body requiring no conscious control. As he progressed, the chomping and grunting grew louder, while the moans were quieting down. Halfway there, Maegorn faltered. He was entering the wildest part of the Lunalin forest, dark and ominous, where elves rarely ventured. The jungle was the ruler here, not king Silveryn, and should anything happen to Maegorn, his body would rot in some nameless swamp, unburied and unsung. Untagged.

There came another moan, broken and harrowing. Not a call for help anymore, but a farewell to the world. Maegorn jumped towards it.

When the smell of blood and wet fur hit his nostrils, he stopped. The emerald foliage of the giant belian tree was thick, so he peered down, careful not to disturb a single leaf. There, among its roots, illuminated by the soft moonlight, a massive striped form was busily gnawing. The thick paws were pinning the prey down, the dagger-like teeth were slicing at the meat, the whip of the tail was lashing against the tense hind legs. A black tigress. She was making low rumbling noises – nervous and angry, while the small dark form under her paws had gone silent, only a few ragged breaths erupting from its chest.

Maegorn clenched his fingers around the branch. Taking a black tigress’s dinner away from her was always a game of life and death, and without his double swords he had few doubts as to whose death it would end with. Not that it was going to make him turn back.

He yanked a short carving knife out of his boot. The blade was sharp, but too short to make him a matching opponent. He scanned the ground, taking notes of every broken branch, every rock, every tangle of vine he could use in the fight, and then he saw it. A steel-jawed leghold trap, set among the roots of a nearby dead ash. Was that why the tigress had attacked that elf? It was an elf, not a demon under her paws, there was no doubt: even in the darkness it was clear that the skin of the one on the ground wasn’t blue. There was no sign of horns either. So had the elf been attacked in revenge? Was it a hunting trip gone awry? Whatever the reason, the trap was a game changer, and now Maegorn had all the chances to win.

Movements inaudible to almost anything alive, he slid to the ground.

She heard him.

For a moment, she went rigid. Then, perking her ears, she lifted her head and focused on him. Their eyes met, her pale orange and his dark brown, and they stared, assessing each other’s intentions. The tigress was mature and smart. Experienced. Trapping her would be a challenge.

Moonlight bounced off Maegorn’s knife. The tigress’s hackles rose, and she bared her bloodied teeth, both a warning and a preparation for attack. Maegorn made a sharp motion with his knife and gave a whistle, loud and metallic – a dozen blades slicing at glass. Back in the war days, such a whistle would make demons fall to their knees and howl.

The tigress shuddered back, her ears folding against her head, and snarled. The air grew tense and quiet around, like the last moment before a monsoon storm, and then she charged. Maegorn waited, never leaving his eyes off her. He waited, and waited, and waited. At last she was close enough – he turned and ran in the direction of the dead ash. In the direction of the trap. The tigress caught up with him fast. Too fast. When she swatted her paw, her claws grazed along his shoulder blade, but he didn’t let this slow him. The lowest dead branch was almost within the reach, so he pushed against the ground and jumped. He grabbed at the gnarled bark, and, wincing at the sore shoulder, heaved himself on top. The tigress growled in frustration, trying to stop, but the force of momentum carried her forward, until she slammed into the hollow trunk. The tree rained her with dusty leaves and dry sprigs. She shook her head, flipped her tail and pounced up, but Maegorn was too high for her to reach him. She danced a bit, trying to grab at the branch, then twirled back towards the trunk, intending to climb it. Furious at him for interrupting her mealtime, she lost her focus, moved too close, so the moment her paw touched the roots, there came a sharp clicking sound.

She gave a short yelp. The tree shook again.

The tigress roared, trying to get out, growled as she yanked and gnawed at the chain, but when she realized she was trapped, she went very quiet. Her vulnerability would only attract other predators, so she hid her pain, stiffening and twisting her head up, waiting for Maegorn’s move.

Maegorn jumped down. Slowly, he circled her, choosing the way to kill her that would cause her least pain but also put him in least danger. Even trapped, she was deadly. Gorgeous, too. The sleek black pelt lined with serrated lashes of the brightest orange was a rarity. This was the true queen of the wild part of Frawvanna – graceful and powerful. Intelligent. Her pale eyes looked at him with fear and rage, but not with madness. Had she simply killed the elf, he would have let her go. But she had tried the meat and therefore needed to be destroyed.

He closed in on her, knife in hand... There came rustling to his right. Another pair of pale blue eyes glistened at him from the grass, wide and scared. A small furry silhouette – black lined with orange. A pink button of a nose. Two tiny rounded ears.

Maegorn wavered. Slowly, he turned back towards the tigress. So the elf had stepped into her territory, set up a trap and attacked her, or perhaps even her young. Now her anger seemed fair. Justified. Maegorn clenched the hilt of his knife. Was he still supposed to kill her?

After a few moments of inner battle, he hid the knife in his boot.

Keeping eye contact with the tigress, he neared the trap. She flinched away, as far as the chain would let her, and froze, her ears flattened to the back of her head. Holding his open hands in sight, Maegorn reached out to study the trap. She let him. The mechanism was familiar, so Maegorn put his feet over the steel jaws and pushed down with his whole weight. The trap snapped open, releasing the tigress’s paw. She jerked back. Hissing warningly at Maegorn and holding her injured limb high, she withdrew into the thicket. From out there, she gave a sharp distressed call and a black-and-orange shadow flashed by and disappeared in the grass, joining her. Soon their limping steps quietened and Maegorn was left alone, surrounded by the usual sounds of the jungle, which weren’t interrupted by anything, even by breathing – the elf on the ground was dead. Maegorn knelt by the body and pulled off the hood: it was a female. She must have been a mainlander, with her long face, her fair hair and her light skin. Her attire, practical and inconspicuous, gave no indication as to her origin. Was she a traveler? A friend coming for a visit? A hunter or a merchant? Judging by the contents of her bag, she had packed for a long camping trip, with dried foods, water-resistant clothing, medical supplies and balms to repel bugs – all suited for a jungle outing. Searching her pockets revealed fire-making tools, a fat purse, hunting and throwing knives and a few red-colored tangy-smelling biscuits.

Maegorn was adjusting her torn coat when something rustled inside the lining. In the hidden pocket there was a crinkled sheet of paper, filled with meticulous notes and drawings. They didn’t make sense, the colored lines and squiggles, but Maegorn’s stomach stung, as if inhabited by a colony of fire ants. He recognized the outlines. It was Frawvanna, with crossed swords marking their guarding posts, ports, plantations and housing areas. More than that, the map spanned the whole island, showing their neighbors as well. A large horned triangle indicated the Alposs Peak, while a scattered collection of small horned circles along the border stood for the demon towers…

This was no traveler lying dead at his feet. It was a spy.

The accuracy of the map was shocking. What did the runes next to each structure say? How many soldiers the guarding posts contained? The number of their swords and arrows? Their rotation schedules? Mentally, Maegorn thanked the tigress. She hadn’t only been protecting her cub, she’d been safeguarding the island. Her home. His home.

Maegorn heaved the elf’s body over his shoulder and headed back in the direction of the beach. He moved slowly and wearily on the ground, and by the time he was within the hearing range of the guards, he was drenched in sweat. He lowered the spy on the moss and whistled a special call, indicating that the matter was serious enough to be discussed with the commander himself. U’tron Face-Slasher – Frawvanna’s fiercest warrior and Maegorn’s best friend – would know what to do. Vision of the world limited to only one eye, he was twice as farsighted as the king's best advisers.

Soon there came a soft thump and a hand lowered on his shoulder.

‘What happened?’ U’tron asked. He gave the scratch on Maegorn’s shoulder a worried look, but Maegorn waved dismissively.

‘I found this in the paws of a black tigress,’ he said. ‘It’s what’s left of her dinner. This,’ he pointed at the body, ‘and this,’ he reached out the map.

U’tron studied the paper, his face growing darker by the moment, then knelt beside the spy.

‘Did you find anything that would indicate her hirer?’

Maegorn produced the red-colored biscuits. At U’tron’s questioning glance, he said, ‘The color? The smell? It’s sumac spice. I tried it when I lived on mainland. They love it at the Saffur court.’

U’tron’s only eye widened. ‘King Faergol,’ he whispered, crumpling the map in his fist. He sat, nervously running his hand through his bright-red hair, but then gave his usual chuckle. ‘Do you think there is a chance Faergol is planning king Silveryn’s surprise birthday party?’

Maegorn lowered next to him on the grass. The worry in his gut and the throbbing in his shoulder had soured his mood for jokes.

‘What are we going to do?’ he asked. ‘They say he’s got a hundred ships. Twenty thousand soldiers. There is no way we can repel Faergol’s Armada.’

U’tron took a loud breath. Straightening the crumpled map, he brushed his fingers over the large horned triangle drawn on the other side of the island.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We’re going to need an ally.’

* * *

  
‘What do you want, Le’unn? That we beg you?’

‘I want to retain my honor.’

‘Is your honor more important than the fate of your land and kin?’

She turned away. She was a proud elf, his cousin. Proud and willful. The best archer of Frawvanna – Le’unn Arrow-Tempest. Maegorn tolerated this tag better than her previous one – Le’unn Revenge-Seeker – which had always reminded him that it had been his duty to gain the tag and he had failed: she was the one to have avenged his father and to have been awarded the amazing tag. She always got the best ones. Reckless to the point of picking a poisonous ancar tree as her home, least of all she could stand males dictating whom she was to marry. No, least of all she could stand them telling her to marry that particular groom. But as king Silveryn’s only daughter Le’unn had responsibilities, some of which required sacrifices of pride.

Maegorn moved into her line of vision once more.

‘He is not Grundfjorn,’ he said in a softer voice. ‘For years he’s been adhering to the peace treaty – more than his mother ever did – and some say he is…’ he searched for a word that could positively describe a demon, ‘nice.’ He smirked at her eye roll. ‘He won’t eat you.’

‘You think that’s what I’m scared of?’

‘I thought you weren’t scared of anything.’

‘You’re a piece of shit.’

He’d heard her swear enough at the battlefield not to be fazed.

‘Being with the demon, it might be not that bad.’

‘Why don’t you marry him then?’

‘If I were a female, I would.’

She looked him in the eyes. ‘But you’re not, how very convenient.’ Her lips became a thin line of resentment. ‘Instead, both you and father are male, so you think you have the right to push me into something that wouldn’t even be necessary, were you not such cowards.’

Maegorn tensed. ‘This is no cowardice. A hundred ships, Le’unn. Twenty thousand soldiers. We stand no chance against Faergol’s armada. Unless we want our kin to end, we need the alliance with the demons.’

‘And you couldn’t offer their king gold? Oils? Fucking coconuts? No, you had to pimp me out as your leverage, and now you want me to pretend that _it might be not that bad_ and that _I might even like it_? Go to the death pit.’

‘If there were a different way—’

‘Don’t pretend this isn’t what you’ve always wanted – to get rid of me.’ She jumped up, clenching her fists as if to refrain from punching him. ‘Now that I’m away, father can finally appoint you his heir. After everything I’ve done, after everything _you’ve_ done, he’d still rather have you.’ 

Maegorn flinched. ‘Uncle never wanted this,’ he said, giving her a hard look. ‘ _I_ certainly never wanted this.’

‘At least when I’m gone nobody will be stealing your tags.’

Maegorn rose. He tried to do his uncle’s bidding but talking to her when she was in such a mood was like talking to a riled baboon.

‘You know you have to do it,’ he said before climbing down. ‘Why don’t you come around sooner and save everyone’s time?’

Three days Le’unn was unbending, and Maegorn and his uncle took turns persuading her, each conversation getting louder and arguments growing more personal, but by the third evening she called them assholes and yelled her consent. She probably just wanted them to shut up.

The parley was set in the trade post that stood between towers 4 and 5, right on the border separating the elves’ jungle and the demons’ wasteland. Both the towers and the post were considered neutral ground and used for monthly trade – spices and oils in exchange for gems, metals and coal – between the neighbors. _Some neighbors_. Not only did they never talk during the trade, but the merchant parties did their best to avoid meeting at all, leaving the designated goods and payment without so much as a glance in the others’ direction. Whenever the parties did cross paths, the exchange of produce ended up as an exchange of blows. Maegorn had supervised a few deals back in the days, right after the truce had been signed, and now he could still feel the heavy air of latent hatred that clung to the walls. Dingy and damp, shabby and austere, the trade post had been cleaned up and prepared for the meeting: ten rattan armchairs had been brought in, five for the elves and five for the demons.

The two kings sat across from each other – they couldn’t be more different if the Spirits had created one from coconut pudding and the other from a piece of marble. King Silveryn’s face bloomed with violet eyes, tawny hibiscus cheeks and marigold hair, while King Rakhadar... Maegorn hadn’t seen the demon since the last battle, more than five years now, and his Blaze had changed somewhat. Matured – his jaw even squarer, eyebrows thicker, mouth larger. Only the skin was just as black-blue, the hair was still shaven at the temples and knotted at the top, the damn stomach sticking from under the cropped top was still a rippling plough field of muscle, and the slanted eyes were still red, with the creepy horizontal pupils Maegorn had seen in many a nightmare. And yes. The horns were still there.

Looking up, Maegorn startled – the demon was staring back, the red peepers scanning his face and body. Was Rakhadar assessing his, Maegorn’s, changes? They’d fought a lot in the past. Sharing their age to the day, they’d been good enemies.

Silveryn’s honeyed voice woke him. ‘I am pleased to welcome you, your Blaze.’

The demon tilted his head. ‘I am honored by your invitation, your Grace.’ Rakhadar’s lack of accent had always been a mystery.

Silveryn put on a blissful smile. ‘I pray this parley is auspicious. May it be blessed by the Sacred Spirits.’

The demons tensed at the worship. Commander Slash-Face – demons didn’t give each other tags, so elves gladly did it for them – curled his upper lip, baring his teeth; captain Fire-Breasts squared her shoulders, her heaving chest threatening to burst the cropped black top; adviser Coconut-Head clicked his tongue and shook his shiny bald noggin; officers Snake-Sisters exchanged dark looks.

Why was Silveryn annoying them? Was he testing their reaction? Trying to prove that, unlike his mother, Rakhadar wouldn’t throw a fit at the mere mention of the elven deity? Persuading Le’unn he was harmless? Wasn’t it a little too late for persuasions?

Rakhadar didn’t move a muscle. ‘I pray that the Inferno Mother looks at our meeting with a warm heart.’ As if by a whistle, the demons pressed the backs of their hands to the corners of their mouths and made a wiping motion. Maegorn clenched his teeth to keep a straight face at their prayer – it always made them look like a bunch of trained chimps.

Silveryn waited for them to finish.

‘For years I had been praying for peace between elves and demons, and with your ascension to the throne, your Blaze, my dream came true. And yet, as good neighbors and lifelong protectors of this sacred island, it is a shame we are living in ignorance of each other, estrangement of culture and blood. In a time of dire need, aiding one another is a duty and a privilege. A threat to us is a threat to you. Should we perish, so will your oil and spice deliveries; your borderline will be vulnerable, your access to inland trade will suffer. Our friendship is more than mere good grace, it is a mutually beneficial union that will only profit, if strengthened.’

Silveryn kept talking, his speech coming down to ‘you need us more than we need you, so come and guard us, you infernal dogs, because, however superior we are to you, we are weak and scared; please come and bark the bad elves away from our shores, and for this we’ll give you a nice juicy bone and call you good doggies’.

Rakhadar listened, his face a slab of blue granite, only the tips of his fingers tapped softly at the armrest.

Pinkie-ring-third-index.

Pinkie-ring-third-index.

Pinkie-ring-third-index.

The candlelight reflected on the tightly clipped black claws, and somehow this was even harder to look away from than Fire-Breasts’ enormous tits. Was Rakhadar impatient to get his hands on Le’unn? After all, this meeting was a mere formality. The ceremonial letter of marriage proposal and the demon king’s acceptance had been exchanged days before; today the groom and the bride were to officially meet – in itself a laughable concept, since the innumerable times they had crossed blades and exchanged insults – and separate for a pre-bonding celebration. Elves would celebrate the coming marriage by dancing all night long, and how demons did it, Maegorn had no knowing. In his imagination, it had to be something obscene and fire-related. Licking oil from each other’s bodies. Swimming naked in the lava. Burning a giant wooden phallus…

Maegorn shooed away the disturbing vision and focused on Silveryn’s speech.

‘…And, as the highest note of trust and good will between our kingdoms, nothing would be stronger than a bond of love.’

The tapping stopped. Rakhadar narrowed his eyes. Tilted his head to the side. Like a dog.

With a wide gesture, Silveryn waved towards his daughter. Le’unn was sitting straight, her chin held high. Her unruly flaxen hair had been twisted in a fashionable assemblage of braids and flowers, and they even managed to stuff her into a dress.

‘Your Blaze,’ Silveryn said, stretching his lips in a patronizing smile, ‘you would give me the highest honor by bringing our families together, closer than even friends, by becoming a son to me, and a husband to my daughter. Princess Le’unn has been most—’

‘Oh,’ Rakhadar said.

Silveryn stopped mid-sentence. His smile was still hanging on his face, but his left eye twitched.

‘Oh?’ he asked.

The demon swallowed. His eyes darted to Le’unn.

‘Forgive me, princess, I didn’t realize, when the proposal was sent...’ He took a breath and turned to Silveryn. ‘I am not interested in your females, your Grace.’ He said it easily, like the truth he’d come to terms with and wasn’t ashamed of. None of his courtiers seemed bothered either.

The elves _stared._ U’tron, Le’unn, adviser Miluris – all sat as if paralyzed by a krait’s venom. So did Maegorn. Even Silveryn was lost for words.

‘But,’ he stuttered, ‘I-I have no sons.’

Rakhadar studied his claws and then looked up.

‘You have a nephew.’

In the dead silence that followed, Le’unn’s laughter was thunderous. She laughed, and laughed, and wouldn’t stop. Not even when tears streamed down her cheeks and one of her braids fell out of her hairdo.

Rakhadar frowned and Silveryn gave his daughter a glare. ‘Forgive her, your Blaze, she is a creature of emotion.’

Le’unn clasped her hands over her mouth and still her shoulders rocked in soundless giggles.

Silveryn took a deep breath. Ran a hand over his hair. Coughed. As he turned to Maegorn, his look was apologizing but also stern. The _you know you have to do it so come around sooner kind of look_.

‘What will you say, general Maegorn?’

What could Maegorn say? He’d said enough. All the is your honor more important than the fate of your land and kin and we stand no chance against Faergol’s armada were coming back to bite him, a dark cloud of poison bees, and the longer he sat, the deeper their stings drove into his skin.

Silveryn took advantage of his silence. ‘General Maegorn is speechless at the honor you bestow upon him, your Blaze.’

Maegorn’s chair screeched as he stood. Apparently, his presence wasn’t even required for the deal.

Another chair screeched behind him.

‘General, I-I have gift.’

A dark blue hand was reaching out to Maegorn. On it, there was a crystal box, the size of an ink bottle. Maegorn focused on the box, not on the hand that was offering it. He took it and looked through the transparent lid. Inside there was... a rock. A small block of dirty grey, rough and jagged. Was this a joke? Maegorn opened the lid. Nothing changed, only the prank grew more apparent.

‘We call it a guiding light,’ Rakhadar said, ‘it’s a— No!’ he yelped, reaching out in a stalling gesture.

Too late – Maegorn had already touched the stone.

He screamed in blinding pain and jerked his hand away, sending the box and the stone flying across the room. The smell of burning flesh filled the room, and, in a flash of purple haze, his body chose to switch off.


	2. Chapter 2

When Maegorn woke, he found his head throbbing, his hand bandaged and U’tron sitting by his side. He would have been able to persuade himself that the parley had been nothing but a bad dream, that it was Le’unn’s job to kiss the demon by the Sacred Tree and move to dogland, but the barbecue of his fingers told him otherwise.

He swallowed a sticky lump in his throat.

‘Does Pereliv know?’

U’tron gave a sad nod and held out a cup. Water revived Maegorn; he sat up with a grunt.

U’tron smiled weakly. ‘When you fell, the demon tried to throw himself at you, but we thwarted him off,’ he said.

Maegorn gave a sour chuckle and got up. ‘When did they set my happy date?’

‘Two weeks’ time.’ U’tron scratched the back of his head and a few fiery braids fell over the scarred skin of the missing eye. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

His look was of pity. Maegorn needed to get used to these. If the way elves had been treating Le’unn was any indicator, he would be getting a lot of pitying looks and _can I help you’_ s and _it might not be that bad’_ s. Except that, as a male, he would also be getting dirty jokes and lewd hints, and certainly a few derisive looks behind his back.

‘Thank you, my friend. But unless you have a bottle of poison, there’s nothing else that can help me right now.’

With a sigh, he climbed down his teak. He braced for the most painful conversation of his life.

His burns took a fortnight to heal.

A day before the wedding, he went down to the training grounds to see how much his reflexes had weakened. It turned out, quite a lot. His right hand felt clumsier and slower, almost borrowed. The skin on his fingertips was scarred and wrinkled and it grew raw after a few hours of practice with the blades.

He was washing sweat off his face when U’tron approached him.

‘Fancy a sparring session?’

Maegorn studied his blistered right hand – the same hand that spotted an ugly old scar around the wrist. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

U’tron chuckled. It was a sad chuckle. There was no tomorrow for Maegorn in Frawvanna, was there?

‘They’re looking for you. For the final dress fitting or some such,’ he said. Maegorn wiped his face with a towel and U’tron watched him, eyebrows pinching. ‘They say he’s giving you a cave at the top, so that it feels more like living up a tree. Ordered a dozen frangipani trees to be delivered, ready for planting. And jasmine bushes. And—’ Their eyes met, and U’tron winced. ‘I’m just saying he seems... nice.’ He tried to duck, but Maegorn’s towel still smacked him right in the face.

Maegorn climbed up his teak and sat there till the evening. They did come to him for the final dress fitting and he chased them away with insulting whistles. He cared not that this tarnished his reputation – it was already beyond repair.

As the jungle plunged into darkness, the lulling buzz of cicadas interrupted occasionally by the metallic tonk-tonk-tonk of a bellbird or the cri-cri-o of a piha, he lay on his bed, not bothering to draw the leafy curtain and staring blankly into the star-peppered sky. Closer to midnight, the leaves rustled and U’tron popped up in the foliage. He held out a peace offering before Maegorn could flip him off.

‘I did find a bottle of poison,’ he said. In fact, he had two. ‘One for now and the other will wait for you here, and we’ll celebrate when you come back,’ he explained, settling down on the bed.

Maegorn studied the carmine liquid, drove his nose closer to the neck of the bottle.

‘How strong is it?’

U’tron’s eye twinkled. ‘Strong enough to forget.’

The bottle was half empty when they started singing. When they ran out of happy songs, they turned to love ballads, and when those ended, it was time for true mourning. Heavy with wine and emotion, their voices wobbled and wavered. As they were hiccuping through the saddest part of _Sweet Death, Come for Me_ , a furious shrill right above made them jump.

‘Would you stop with the wailing?’ Miluris yelled, looming over them like a storm cloud. ‘It’s the middle of the night and I have a baby to put to sleep.’ They were so drunk, they hadn’t even heard her climb.

‘Miluris, my friend,’ U’tron smiled, eyeing her blurrily. ‘We apologize for the trouble, but Maegorn here never had his pre-bonding celebration. Spirits won’t consider it proper. Join us, will you?’

‘No, thank you,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I’m holding a wedding tomorrow, so I have no time to waste on drinking.’ She turned to Maegorn. ‘May I remind you, general, that you have a minor part to play in the ceremony. I truly hope you’ll be able to stand straight through the sacred vows.’

‘That’s fine, adviser.’ Even in the drunk haze he remembered he was not supposed to call her mother with others around. He hiccoughed and swayed. ‘I prefer it that my husband knows straight away what he is marrying into.’

U’tron laughed.

Miluris pursed her lips. ‘I know you think you can’t sink any lower. But among those watching you tomorrow will be one who still respects you. Is this the way you want to be remembered?’

Laughter died on Maegorn’s lips. Mother knew how to sting him where it hurt the most.

When she left, they finished the bottle in silence and fell on their backs, gazes directed at the sky.

‘I’m glad Irillion has volunteered to come with you,’ U’tron said. ‘He is a loyal friend and a joyful little parrot. He’ll watch after you.’

Maegorn sighed. ‘At least he won’t let me go hungry.’ The stars above him sparkled softly and indifferently. They didn’t care for his fate. ‘To think all I’ve ever wanted was to get a decent tag,’ he said.

U’tron shifted. ‘You have a decent tag.’

‘You mean I _had_ a decent tag.’ Maegorn paused. ‘You’ve always helped me get away from being tagged down, even when I deserved it, but this time… I don’t think it will be in your power to prevent something like Horn-Bonker or Demon-Whore from happening.’

U’tron barked out a laugh. ‘However much I love both, I’m sure you’ll get by as something less creative.’ He turned and his blue eye glinted almost black in the darkness. ‘You need to stop tormenting yourself about this. Your father set the bar too high.’

‘Sometimes I think he was lucky to die.’

‘Maegorn—’

‘Just think about it: you receive a Major Tag, and the next day you die, going down in history as forever great. You can never screw it up, become less of a hero, be tagged down – isn’t this the best way to go?’

U’tron’s glance grew worried. ‘Your life isn’t over, Maegorn. This is just the wine talking.’

Maegorn twisted his lips in a smile. ‘It is,’ he lied.

‘You’ll be fine, my friend,’ U’tron said. ‘I know you will.’ He took Maegorn’s hand and squeezed.

Maegorn wanted to say something, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Damn Face-Slasher. His poison was strong indeed.

Long after U’tron was gone, he sat, blurred gaze directed far ahead, where, piercing the clouds, soared the ominous shadow of Aploss Peak. Jorotaja, as demons themselves called it. Dogland. A pitch-black monster of a mountain, lighting up with the piercing green lights of the towers. What were those lights – a demonic ritual? A sacrifice to their brutal deity? The summoning of some fiery beasts? Elves had never found out. The towers close to the border they’d been fighting over during the war revealed no clue as to the buildings’ purpose. Scattered all over the slopes, the haphazard rocky structures flashed up each night, every time in a different spot, an eerie reminder that the elves were not the only inhabitants of the island.

Chill was creeping into Maegorn’s stomach. Right after the ceremony he would cross the border and move into the Dog Castle: a pile of black rock half-built into the side of the mountain, its caves punctuating the slope like spots on a poxy beast, the visible part of it sticking out its ugly maw towards the jungle – jagged walls for teeth, green fires for eyes and thick smoke coming out of the mines for dirty tousled hair. Even in this dark hour, the contrast between the emerald sea of the jungle and the rugged muddy slopes of the mountain was the junction of life and death, and Maegorn’s transition tomorrow would be irreversible: from a bird on a tree to a dog in a cave. He might as well bark his vows at the ceremony.

On the morning of his wedding he woke with the worst hangover of his life. Most of all he wished for a glass of sweet milk, a few hours of sleep and a new head. He didn’t get any of that. Instead, he had to stand through three hours of grooming while his hair was braided and adorned with frangipani flowers, his body was dressed in blue robes and wrapped with a dark brown belt that matched his eyes and hair, his skin was rubbed with coconut oil and perfumed with jasmine essence.

When they left, he looked into the mirror and scowled. He was a pig bedazzled for a village fair, readied to be sold to the highest bidder. Except that he already had a buyer, and it was the one who had skewers prepared for a roast.

‘You look handsome, my boy.’

Maegorn met his uncle’s eyes in the mirror.

‘Thank you, your Grace.’

Silveryn stepped closer and Maegorn turned. His mother was there too. Her robes were slightly brighter than her usual stern grey, but her face was not.

Silveryn put a hand on his shoulder.

‘My heart aches to see you leave,’ he said. ‘But it’s not your first time leaving Frawvanna. You’ll pull through.’

Was he comparing the years Maegorn had spent on mainland philandering and spending father’s money to this shameful exile as the dog king’s chew toy?

‘I certainly will, your Grace.’

‘You are strong, my boy, and I want you to stay this way.’ Silveryn pressed a palm – unnaturally smooth and clammy – to Maegorn’s cheek. ‘You can’t let this break you.’

The first time someone had told him the dog king would try to break him, Maegorn’s treacherous knees had clamped up, but by now all it did was make him yawn.

‘I won’t, your Grace.’

His boredom must have shown, because another amphibian limb was now sliming his other cheek.

‘I want you to take it seriously, my boy. You must be strong when you come back.’

‘Come back?’ Maegorn smiled mirthlessly. ‘When the demon chokes on a bone or falls down with dog pox?’

Miluris’s robes rustled in the corner. Mother didn’t like it when he was being sarcastic.

‘You don’t think I’m sending you to Jorotaja forever, do you?’ Silveryn said.

‘But how—’

‘Once Faergol’s Armada is repelled for good, we won’t need demons’ help anymore. I’ll arrange for an annulment and you’ll come home.’

The words rang in Maegorn’s head for a bit.

‘But this is… cheating.’ 

Silveryn gave him a stern look. ‘This is survival. It was a hard decision to make, but now I’m certain. I can’t sacrifice my heir.’

Heir… Maegorn’s heart was beating faster. He had heard rumors, hints, but it was the first time he was referred to as the heir. Le’unn had been right then – Silveryn had stirred the whole marriage affair with her departure in mind, and his plan terribly backfired. Oh the irony.

‘Frawvanna needs to be in good hands,’ Silveryn said.

‘It is in good hands. Yours.’

‘I’m not going to be around forever, my boy.’

With worry, Maegorn looked at his uncle. True enough, Silveryn was old – the oldest elf he knew; Maegorn remembered these eyes brighter, the hair thicker, the pale veins less visible from under the brown skin, but uncle’s rule over Frawvanna was a constant he could never imagine changing. No one could be a better ruler. Certainly not him.

‘Your Grace, what about Le’unn?’

More rustling from the door. He should have probably fallen to his knees with tears of gratitude instead of questioning the king’s decisions.

‘Le’unn is a great female.’ Was there more stress on _great_ or on _female_? Maegorn couldn’t tell. ‘But my daughter is rash and volatile, while Frawvanna needs a sober-minded, strong leader.’

‘I don’t think I’m seen as a strong leader,’ Maegorn said with a scoff. ‘Especially after this.’

‘Then you’ll have to change this when you return.’ At Maegorn’s protest, Silveryn said, ‘You have something to return to. You have _someone_ to return to.’

Maegorn clenched his jaws. Why did they all have to play this card?

Silveryn smiled – a soft fatherly smile that Maegorn yearned for, even though he knew sometimes it was just a ploy.

‘Remember, whatever happens to you there, it’s only temporary. This marriage won’t be your burden forever. You’ll be home soon. Succession comes before marriage and Rakhadar knows it. He won’t fight. And then I’ll press the committee for a Major Tag for you – a better one than your father’s.’

Maegorn’s blushing cheeks were kissed, then released. Uncle tried to hug him, but he pulled away: he had been promised a slow and painful death if he ruined his outfit.

With a final caress of the shoulder, Silveryn turned. ‘I’ll leave you and your mother alone.’

Silveryn’s airy form rustled away, and the room expanded, the short distance between Maegorn and his mother turning into miles and miles of impassable jungle. He coughed a few times while she stood immobile, waiting for an appropriate time before she could leave. Once she opened her mouth, but it was only to release a soft breath, not to wish him good luck or say that her heart ached to see him leave.

He’d been mentally readying himself for _he’ll try to break you_ and _at least your father doesn’t have to see this_ and _it’s the Spirits’ punishment for what you did on mainland_ , but none came. Nothing.

‘Goodbye, mother,’ he said when silence had grown too stifling, and climbed down.

She followed.

‘Goodbye—’ she paused, seeing Le’unn’s approach, ‘— general.’

Le’unn was wearing a festive variation of her uniform – dark green leggings and a golden tunic. Insignia ethelwels were studding her chest like seeds in a sunflower.

‘Looking good, Maegorn Dog-Bride.’

‘Save your breath until I come back,’ Maegorn said grimly, ‘with a Major Tag.’ 

She smirked. ‘Enjoy your marriage, brother. Don’t become a dog.’


	3. Chapter 3

The forest was alive.

It watched with the myriad gold and red flower-shaped lanterns, their shimmering light piercing the evening haze like stars caught in a net and strewn about over the branches.

The forest danced with the rustling silvery foliage: the sky-blocking crowns of the ancient giants spread wide, but never quite touched, the moon’s glow seeping through the thread-like quirking pathways between the canopies to shed its eerie light on the intricate network of the mossy roots webbing the forest floor.

The forest sang with the sweetest elven voices that performed in canon. The leader’s passionate baritone and the followers’ gentle falsetto were harmonized like two lovers walking in syne, one a step shy after the other. At times the voices elevated high enough to be within the hearing range of none but elves and reaching the soul through a sense for which there was no name – it sent chilly prickles down the spine and a heatwave up the veins. The famous elven vibrating falsetto. His favourite.

Rakhadar took a generous breath of the humid grassy air, closed his eyes, and in a flash, he was a boy again, crouching in the bushes, trembling with excitement as he peeked at the celebrating elves. 

He opened his eyes and exhaled. There was no need to hide today, and his joy would not be smeared by the fear of being discovered by elves – or worse, by his own kin. This time he would enjoy the celebration without restraint. Even better, he would take part. His heart was dancing in his chest.

‘This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.’

Rakhadar straightened. His uncle had stopped a little behind and, with his arms propped at the sides, was watching the preparations.

‘Just look at these ash-tossers,’ Guabohr said with derision.

Rakhadar looked. The ash-tossers floated by, smiling at each other, joking and laughing, their robes and eyes and hair a sparkling flurry of colours.

Looking back at his own delegation, Rakhadar saw a heavy mass of dark tops and long golden skirts, black knotted hair and red horizontal-pupiled eyes. His companions moved in a tight pack – faces drawn, brows furrowed – as they were guided to the tables. For their sake, the celebration was set on the ground, and yet, they walked across the clearing cautiously, peering up at the trees with suspicion, if not fear.

‘These motherless bastards think they can intimidate us with the screeching they call music and the tasteless grass they call food? Scare us with their smutty trees? Fool us with their fake smiles? Frying ground worms.’

A couple of elf servers hurried by, carrying plates and jugs, and their laughter lingered in the air.

‘Couldn’t they be genuinely enjoying themselves?’ Rakhadar said when they disappeared.

‘Don’t fall for this, nephew,’ Guabohr said stepping closer. ‘You think they are happy they were pushed to give up a general? They are scared shitless and would have licked anyone’s asses, had they been promised protection. Elves are slimy, honorless cheats.’

‘Please, uncle, I’m about to marry one.’

‘And you are making a mistake.’ Guabohr leaned in. The scar that was slashing across his face grew almost black with anger. ‘It is still not too late, call off this farce, Rakhadar. We can still walk away from this snake pit unburdened. What you are doing is not just stupid, it is dangerous. Your mother killed his father, he killed your best friend – there is too much bad blood between you two.’

‘And that’s how I’m ending this feud.’

‘You think a piece of paper will make him like you? The elf hates you, he considers you a savage, a _demon_ , and no amount of singing and tree climbing will change it. The ash-tossers think you are doing this to humiliate him, to take revenge. What if he smothers you in your sleep?’

‘Then the council will vote for a new king, while you will be charged with raising my brother, like you were with me once.’

Guabohr gave him a long hard look. ‘The pointy-ears are mocking you. Your mother would have never allowed this.’

‘I’m not my mother, am I?’

Guabohr waved a hand dismissively. ‘Enjoy your wedding, fireling.’

Rakhadar watched him go. Soon he was approached by a female elf, who looked slightly apprehensive of him, but not enough to stop smiling.

‘Everything is ready, your Blaze.’ She bowed, her wild purple curls dangling around her face like a cloud of playful butterflies. ‘If you would follow me to the Sacred Tree.’

From a basket hanging in the crook of her arm she tossed handfuls of thick bright leaves under his feet. They crunched softly under his sandals and emitted a fresh foresty smell.

Mesmerized by the magic voices and the dizzying aromas, Rakhadar peered ahead at the tree the elves considered sacred. Its wide trunk was smooth, and its long leafy tendrils looked like tresses of hair; they created a curtain which swayed in the wind, giving out soft murmuring. In front of the tree stood Silveryn, and his shimmering robes rustled in unison with the leaves. Was this type of tree called a banyan? Rakhadar had read about it in Thrimlion’s almanac, but had never dared to sneak in the jungle deep enough to see it. He was about to ask the girl, but the question died, clogging his throat, as from the opposite side, guided by a different elf, there came–

Maegorn.

_Those buckwheat-honey-coloured eyes_

_Could quickly heal my wounded heart;_

_Instead, they will be my demise –_

_I’ll let them tear me apart…_

A bubble inflated in Rakhadar’s chest, and he could hardly breathe against it. His legs grew into wooden stilts. Every step was a wobbly feat. Thankfully, his guide motioned him to stop.

By the Inferno Mother…

Rakhadar did his best to smile, but his effort went unnoticed. Eyes pinned to the leaves scattered under their feet, shoulders leveled with the skyline, Maegorn stopped a few inches away. Then, as the ritual required, held out his hands.

Rakhadar wiped his palms against the celebratory skirt before intertwining their fingers. The rich dark bronze of Maegorn’s skin was impossibly flawless against his dirty blue, so he closed his eyes to settle his excitement. It didn’t work. Eyes closed, his other senses heightened, the acute awareness of Maegorn’s fingers, cool and strong against his, nearly stifling him. His heart was thumping with a dull sound, as if locked in an empty oil barrel, resonating in his ears. He could barely think.

He blinked and concentrated on Silveryn’s voice.

The ceremony was held in old Elvish – a language meowing and murmur-y, but too monotonous to be truly beautiful. He could only understand two words in a dozen, but the gist was clear. The one word he had been trained to recognize was ‘rüssom’, and yet, when he heard it, he looked at Silveryn for confirmation. At the king’s nod, he leaned forward, hoping that in the dreamlike state that he was, he wouldn’t do something unforgivable, like miss Maegorn’s lips or lose consciousness or die. He leaned more. Maegorn wasn’t meeting him halfway, but stood, stiff and unbending, eyes still cast downwards, and the last moment before the touch, turned away, giving Rakhadar only the corner of his mouth. Rakhadar took it. Gratefully. With all the pent-up tenderness, he pressed his lips to the brown skin. A whiff of Maegorn’s scent wrapped him and he staggered, pulling away for balance.

The singing grew louder, Silveryn spoke more pompous words, and lifted the tree’s curtain, signing for them to enter. Hand in hand, they walked under the cover of the long branches, away from the onlookers.

They were alone.

Maegorn lead him around the mighty trunk to a whispering brook among the roots and urged him to kneel. Scooping a handful of clear water, Maegorn held it out and Rakhadar drank, coughing at the cold. He wiped his mouth and plunged a hand into the freezing water. His fingers ached and most of it spilled through, so there was barely anything to drink. As Maegorn bent down, a flower fell out of his hair. Rakhadar reached up to put it back, but his hand was swatted away. He met Maegorn’s look, hard and distrustful, and his heart sank.

Was Guabohr right? Was he making a mistake?

When they stepped out into the clearing, the feast had already started. They were greeted by lukewarm applause and seated at a table.

Rakhadar’s eyes slid towards his party. His friends and relatives sat, shifting in their uncomfortable chairs, some staring at the cutlery as if the forks and spoons were about to attack, some cringing at the bland elven food, some, like Guabohr, arms folded on their chests, eyed the ceremony with badly concealed disdain.

Elves cared not for their sour expressions. Like a flock of paradise birds, they danced and sang, ate and drank, laughed and chirped, and Rakhadar couldn’t take his eyes off them, not only because he was soothed by their joy, but because every time he looked away, he saw Maegorn, who sat to his right with the expression of one readying for death, downing one glass of pungent-smelling red drink after another.

As Rakhadar glanced across the clearing, he met the eyes that were looking back. A young elf he’d never seen – and a face like that he would have remembered. Long-lashed, full-lipped and wide-eyed, it could have been a female’s, were it not for the high cheekbones and a wide jawline. But the most prominent was the hair – a halo of pure sunshine, spilling over his shoulders in streaks of golden rays, so long it wrapped him like a cloak. Rakhadar was used to elven beauty, and Maegorn was handsome in a special, incomparable way, but this was something different – this kind of beauty could have come from under the Inferno Mother’s hands, not an ordinary female’s womb. Rakhadar had not met the elf, had not seen these icy blue eyes before, and yet they were looking at him. With hatred.

What had he done to deserve it?

His uncle’s words were true, while their lands had been at war, they had done each other a lot of ill. He’d killed elves aplenty, and his mother before him even more. But it all changed when Rakhadar became king. He wanted no feud with elves. Not that he ever dared to dream he’d be bonding with Maegorn, but he didn’t want those dark honeyed eyes to look at him with the same hatred they had for Grundfjorn.

Perhaps, once Maegorn settled in Jorotaja, he would see that not all _demons_ were unmannered beasts? And maybe – maybe – with time, Rakhadar could deserve Maegorn’s respect, if not friendship? Could this, in turn, be the first step on the path of genuine alliance, when the truce between the neighbors was not a rickety overpass held together by fear, loathing and a piece of paper, but a strong bridge that connected cultures, values and opinions, united families and built intimate bonds? Silveryn’s words had been nothing but a manipulative pomposity, but they spoke to Rakhadar’s heart the way the elven king could never guess. Could this ever be achieved?

Could it start today?

‘General,’ he rehearsed, softly addressing his glass of water, ‘I want to make it clear that this is but a mutually beneficial partnership which, as I hope with my whole heart, with time, will bring our peoples together. Rest assured, this would involve no… no…’ he froze, frantically searching his mind for the word in Elvish, and at last it came to him, ‘…improprieties. For now, your responsibilities will include attending official events and morning routines. Should you wish to expand your duties with time, you need to only let your preference known.’ What else? What else? ‘Your rights will be respected, as will the requirements of your culture. Although you might experience minor discomforts to adjust to, like higher temperatures or the lack of chairs, at no time will you be forced to conform to our lifestyle.’ Rakhadar winced: uncle would have snapped his horns for this. Scratching the skin above his elbow, he thought if there was anything else important to mention. There was one thing. ‘The second wedding ceremony will take place after you settle in and will be explained to you detail. Also, don’t hesitate to tell me how I can make your life in Jorotaja more comfortable. I will do anything.’ _Anything_.

Rakhadar let out a careful breath. Yes, this must be it. He was ready. Twice did he turn to his right, and twice did he falter. On the third time he opened his mouth… and saw Maegorn standing.

‘Forgive me, your Blaze, I have an important matter to settle,’ Maegorn said. He didn’t look his way. Instead, his eyes flashed towards the young elf, the one with sunny hair and blue eyes. At Maegorn’s slight nod, the youngster leaped up and as Maegorn disappeared into the darkness, he followed.

Rakhadar’s neck grew hot. He pulled aside the collar of his top, but his breathing was still labored. With an effort, he struggled to put down the sparks that were stinging his insides. He stared at his plate, clutching at the lacy table cloth, driving his sandals into the fluffy moss – and then he skipped to his feet.

He shook the nearest server for the directions towards Maegorn’s tree. He prayed they would not be so foolish as to meet there, where they could be easily found, but as he neared the pointed teak, he heard their hot whisper up in the foliage. They didn’t even bother lowering the curtain.

‘…please,’ the young one whined, ‘this is our last chance. I have my things ready—’

‘I can’t. You know I can’t go. But I promise I’ll come back. Soon. And with a Major Tag. You’ll be proud of me.’

‘I don’t care about your stupid tag. All I want is that you’re with me.’ There was sobbing. ‘You’ll forget me, you’ll like it in dogland and you’ll forget me.’

‘You are my joy, my sun,’ Maegorn murmured, ‘I will never forget you.’ He sighed. ‘In times of darkness, always remember that you have a place in my heart that no one will ever take. I love you. More than anything in this world. And when my hour of darkness comes, I’ll find solace in knowing that you’re home, and you’re safe... and you love me.’

‘I love you,’ came a soft sigh.

The sound of a kiss. _Rüssom_ , Rakhadar’s inflamed mind supplied coldly.

‘I’ll train day and night,’ the young one said with passion, ‘I’ll get strong, stronger than U’tron. And then I’ll come to dogland, kill the damn dog and take you back home with me.’

Maegorn chuckled. ‘I’ll be waiting for you to rescue me, my beautiful saviour.’ His voice was filled with adoration. ‘Don’t worry, this marriage won’t be my burden forever.’

A rustle of clothes. A kiss. A sigh. And then silence, which was somehow even more intimate.

Rakhadar’s hands balled into fists. He swiped them over his eyes, and they came off wet. His fingers heated up and tingled, so he rushed back towards the music and lights and laughter. As he sat, staring at his hands with unseeing eyes, a server approached him with a jug.

‘Some wine, your Blaze?’

Wine? He’d heard of this elven drink, of course.

‘Why would I want it?’

The server tilted his head. ‘‘Tis but a merry drink. Takes away worries and grants peace of mind,’ he said with amusement. 

Rakhadar held out his glass. The liquid was tepid and it prickled his tongue with the violent stings of jealousy and the poisonous needles of fury, but as soon as it finished, he reached out for more. And more. And more. He saw fear in the server’s widening eyes but paid it no heed. Peace of mind and no worries. He could use that right now.

After five or six glasses, he relieved the server of the jug and kept pouring himself until the songs blended into an irritating never-ending wailing, the elves’ faces blurred, and their smiles twisted into sneers.

Did they all know Maegorn had a lover? Did they laugh behind his back, mocked a stupid hopeful _dog_ king?

Ash-tossers…

_Your mother would have never allowed this._

But Rakhadar wasn’t his mother. He wasn’t, was he?

As a child, he’d seen her fire turn from a torch, lit in times of need and put out after use, into an uncontrollable inferno, that destroyed friend and foe, made her an insatiable beast and bent her to its will. Succumbing to this was his greatest fear, as the same gift lay dormant in his blood – the power he didn’t ask for, the hunger he’d been suppressing for as long as he could remember, the rage, the need to claim, to destroy. But he was different, wasn’t he? Never would he live by the words mother had said so often, ‘ _If I want it – I take it_.’ Never would he go crazy with fire and let it consume him. Never would he become a demon. Never.

And yet, right now his fingers were shaking, and his blood was pumping, and his mind was aflame.

He was a dimhead. A waste of horns. What had he been thinking? Maegorn would never be his friend. Would never respect him, never even see him as equal. For him, Rakhadar would always be an animal, a filthy dog, a _demon_ – and he had been fine knowing it. He’d lived with this knowledge for so long, it’d become a part of him, like the color of his skin or the length of his horns. But when the proposal letter had arrived, it had incinerated his reason. They uncovered a wound, dangled his dream in front of his nose and it was so close – a mere touch away.

He growled. The server had lied. In no way was he feeling the promised peace of mind. Instead, the heat inside him grew stronger with every breath, so he screwed up, trying to remember the phrase that was supposed to help him quench the flames raging in his throat – the phrase that had been hammered into his consciousness as a fireling – but his head was hollow like the inside of a drum and his reason was silent, no matter how many times he scratched the skin around his elbows.

The tips of his fingers were glowing red.

‘Would you want me to guide your Blaze to the newlywed pavilion?’

Rakhadar blinked at the server who, it appeared, had been standing watching him all this time.

‘Am I to go there alone?’ he snarled.

He turned and saw them, Maegorn and his golden-haired lover, walking into the clearing. They were moving far apart, and yet their steps were synchronized. Right before the young elf took his place at the table, they exchanged a glance – full of love, and longing, and hope – and something in Rakhadar’s mind clicked. His vision drew blurred pictures of his fingers snapping the youngster’s thin neck, his claws slashing the gorgeous face, his breath setting that golden hair on fire.

Little elven scum, how dare he touch what was now Rakhadar’s? Maegorn was his, _his_ …

He jumped to his feet, but instead of the smutty brat, found himself face to face with Maegorn, and his hands closed on the embroidered collar of the dark blue robes. Brown fingers grabbed his wrists with crushing strength. Yes, they were equally strong, they’d found out it long ago, hadn’t they?

‘Don’t you dare fight me,’ Rakhadar growled, bringing their faces so close their noses knocked together, ‘or I’ll burn every _dgadgahi_ palm to the ground and leave the ashes for Faergol’s scavengers.’ His tongue was thick in his mouth and Elvish words slipped his mind. He gave Maegorn a shake. The fabric where his fingers were clutching started to smoke. They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, and slowly the brown fingers unclasped and dropped. ‘And now, _churohi_ , you will go to our pavilion and wait for me. Otherwise, consider yourself instantly divorced.’

The lanterns of Maegorn’s eyes, wide and unblinking, were burning him alive, so, with a final shake of the collar, he turned and walked away.

He plucked a wine jug out of another server’s hands and quaffed it, chocking on the last gulps. On wobbly feet, he staggered into the jungle, along the lighted path to the pavilions set up for the guests.

He lifted the red curtain and tumbled inside, tripping on his skirt. He was met with silence. Vision blurred, all he saw were dozens of golden lanterns, their shimmering light adumbrating the rod-straight silhouette standing by the bed. The silhouette moved; the light flicked and quivered, bouncing off the waterfall of the hair, and Rakhadar’s mouth fell open: his drunken mind told him it was a _ghirorachu_ – a fire jinn, a wish granter, with hair of liquid flame and a heart of a burning coal. To have him in your service, all you had to do was to catch him and ride him until he gave in.

Cold sweat trickled down Rakhadar’s spine and his mouth went dry. Wine sloshed in his stomach. He was shaking, his breaths coming in loud gasps. Hypnotized by the gilded skin and the burning silk of the hair, he clambered closer. His head was numb, with the only pulsating thought of ‘ _If I wanted – I take it’_ throbbing in his mind. And he wanted that one wish fulfilled. He’d had it since he was a boy and he’d die to have it granted.

The jinn was trying to speak, but Rakhadar knew better than listen. With a grunt, he grabbed the muscled forearms. The creature buckled, punched him hard in the jaw, but he held tight. Struggling, they lost balance and collapsed on the bed. The jinn hit him again, whirled out of his grasp and pushed him harder. Pain blossomed in his temple and he growled, tumbling down and landing horns-first on the floor. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, left him blind and dizzy. He clenched his jaws, intending to resume the attack, but that was when he was reminded of all the foreign wine he’d drunk.

His stomach churned with sickness, acidity and self-loathing.

He crawled a few steps towards a curtain behind which he gasped and shuddered and thrashed in waves of nausea, vomiting out his insides.

When he was empty, body and soul, his mind cleared to the crisp merciless understanding: he’d been fighting no jinn, he knew it now. The realization of what he’d said and done to Maegorn brought tears to his eyes. He buried his face in his hands.

‘ _Karachu idha oro,’_ he howled through shaking sobs again and again, repeating the words like a spell, until his head felt heavy and hollow and he closed his eyes, letting the darkness have him.


	4. Chapter 4

For the hundredth time, Maegorn wiped his sweaty palms against his leggings.

He had opened the iron shutters and the heavy wrought door, but it didn’t help. The walls of his tiny cave cell pushed on him, smashing his spine into his chest – he could hardly take a full breath. The night’s sleek tendrils crept towards him, and his throat tightened at the crushing embrace.

For the hundredth time, he told himself to stay calm. It was only darkness. Darkness and the enclosed space. And not a single bloody lantern in the room, only the damn joke of the grey stone in the crystal box. It had been placed on the table by his bed obviously to torment him, as his burnt fingers ached every time he saw it.

He pushed half of his body out of the window and breathed in the night air. His nose prickled at the dry heat and the itchy spice and the musty dog stench, and he dove back inside. He slid to the floor and sat, propping his palms into his knees and flexing his fingers to stop the trembling, but despite his attempts to breathe evenly, the room was quickly transforming into a filthy, damp, dloodworm and larvae-infested old well. Nervously, he rubbed the winding scar around his right wrist. Just when he had grown tense enough to haul himself over the windowsill, he heard soft footsteps. At this point he would have been happy to see anyone, even one of the dogs, but when he saw the pale silver-haired grey-eyed form of Irillion, his shoulders dropped with relief.

‘Where have you been?’ He wanted to say it like an officer chiding his soldier, but it came out like a child whining to his mother.

‘Apologies, my lord,’ Irillion smiled. ‘I was learning my way around the kitchen.’

‘Learnt anything interesting?’

Irillion’s smile grew wider. ‘Watch.’

He walked over to the bedside table, grabbed the crystal box with the grey stone and shook—

Maegorn shielded his eyes, as the stone inside burst in a piercing explosion of purple light. Flinching at the effect, Irillion shook the box in a gentler way and it dimmed, and the slower his wrist moved, the softer the light grew. At last, satisfied with the level of illumination, he settled the box back.

‘They call it a guiding light, and it’s a sacred stone they find deep in the crater. It comes in different colors, and purple happens to be the rarest. And no, you’re not supposed to touch it, that’s why it’s _in a box_.’

Maegorn pursed his lips. ‘You didn’t waste your time,’ he said, eyeing the stone with suspicion. ‘Made friends with dogs?’

Irillion chuckled. ‘Someone’s grumpy today.’ He gestured towards the flat rock that was Maegorn’s bed. ‘Come here, my lord, I’ll get the miffs out of you.’

Irillion was a great friend.

Still frowning, Maegorn moved to where he was instructed. Slowly, his tunic was removed and Irillion’s fingers lowered on his shoulders.

Oh, those fingers. Irillion’s tag was War-Song, but if it were up to Maegorn, he’d name him Soft-Fingers or Silky-Palms.

Maegorn sat quietly as Irillion fumbled with the stopper on a bottle of oil. When the air filled with the sweet jasmine scent, he closed his eyes.

‘Can you believe this place?’ he said, moving his hair to one side. ‘Four bare stone walls with a slit for a window and a gash for a door.’

‘It’s awful, my lord.’

Irillion’s hands moved in long soft strokes from the base of Maegorn’s shoulder blades up to his neck, sending waves of pleasure along the spine.

‘And the atrocity outside my room?’ The marble monster that was guarding his door was a part rhino, a part tiger and had a crock’s tail, bulging eyes, and a wide-open muzzle, with teeth bare and tongue rolled out halfway down to the floor. ‘I’ve never seen anything uglier in my life. I swear its eyes move when it thinks I’m not looking.’

‘Absolutely hideous.’

The hands worked their way up the spine, then fanned outwards across Maegorn’s shoulders, kneading his tension away. It was divine.

‘And the stench? I popped my head out, I thought I’d choke on the stink.’

‘One can barely breathe, my lord.’

A thumb worked the knots around Maegorn’s shoulder blades. Irillion’s magic touches were muddling his mind, so it took Maegorn a while to think of something else to complain about.

‘The bed is hard.’ He felt so good he didn’t even bother that he didn’t sound grumpy anymore.

‘It’s rocklike.’

Irillion used his knuckles to loosen the worst knots, then returned to the long slow strokes, caressing the whole back. Maegorn swallowed a whimper. His head had dropped low and his breathing had become deep and even.

‘And the stairs…’ He trailed off, as Irillion’s hands slid around his waist and were busy undoing his lacing.

Irillion was a great friend.

Sleek fingers curled around Maegorn’s shaft, and he pressed his lips between his teeth not to gasp. At first, the touch was gentle and feathery, but as the pressure grew, he tilted his head back, resting it on Irillion’s shoulder. He breathed sharply at each tight stroke, and soon wished they would get faster, but that was not Irillion’s style. Irillion had the patience of a python, torturing him with unhurried motions, until Maegorn’s lips were red from biting and the bottom of his stomach was ready to burst. He didn’t fight, simply reclined against Irillion’s chest and savored the lazy build up of pleasure that was wrapping his body. It started in his groin and crept up towards the chest, until his muscles wrenched in a spasm and, together with release, the last of the night’s fears left him.

Irillion wiped his hand and cleaned the drops off his leggings. Taking a deep breath, Maegorn turned. They didn’t kiss. They never did. Instead, Maegorn guided Irillion’s head into the crook of his neck and caressed the braided hair - soft, like kitten's pelt. He pulled up Irillion’s tunic and undid the lacing, as always, taking a few seconds to admire Irillion’s shaft. It was a gorgeous thing. Long and thick, and golden-brown, it deserved a tag of its own. How could someone so soft and innocent been awarded such a dangerous weapon? Did Irillion even know his own value? Sometimes Maegorn wondered what such a bolt would feel like inside, but he didn’t want to risk their friendship. He only hoped that whoever was lucky enough to get it, truly deserved it.

Oiling his hand, he wrapped his fingers around the massive length. He glided his fist up, teased the tip and slid down to the base. Not blessed with Irillion’s patience, he increased the speed and when the breathing into his neck grew hot and shallow, gave full attention to the head – which had darkened to proper umber – and the skin right under it. With a broken moan, Irillion drove his forehead into him harder, and went rigid, spilling onto Maegorn’s fist. He was a great friend.

Irillion sat still for a bit, then pulled away.

‘So what’s with the stairs?’ he asked.

‘Hm?’

Irillion looked at him with amusement. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘Never mind,’ Maegorn chuckled.

There was a kiss on his brow. ‘Good night, my lord. See you in the morning. I’ll bring you breakfast.’

When Irillion’s steps quietened down the corridor, Maegorn shifted his attention to the stone in the box. He inspected it until he was sure it was not aggressive, then played with it, making it shine brighter or dimming to almost no glare at all. The light wandered around the room – swept across the square lump of the bedside table, stumbled against the flat boulder of the bed, sneaked into the niche for garments, shuddered away from the heavy door to the bathroom, bounced over a ghastly-looking wrought chest and finally brushed along the miserable homesick pile of Maegorn’s belongings: a few changes of clothing, three sacks with books, a box with writing gear and the ‘Journal of Elven Weapons and Armour’ he’d started writing on mainland and was halfway through. And then, in the soft purple glow, the guiding light revealed the room’s secret. It wasn’t four bare walls after all: wreaths of frangipani flowers and flocks of paradise birds, all in subdued and gentle colors, were painted along the stones, and the ceiling was a shimmering sunrise sky. The strokes thin and subtle, as if done by a tip of a feather rather than a brush, it was not exactly a masterpiece, but decent enough for a canine.

Maegorn ran a hand over the uneven surface – each bird’s eyes were encrusted amethysts and the dew drops on flower petals were diamonds. Damn bastards. If they had enough gems to be wasting them on wall décor, he would need to tell Silveryn to charge the dogs twice as much for every rotten snake fruit.

Studying the pattern, Maegorn drew in the scent of the newly applied colors. Freshly painted… to torment him? Remind him of what he’d lost? Was this part of them trying to break him?

Dumb dogs.

They’d picked the wrong elf. Whatever they did, he wasn’t going to give up. After all, this wasn’t forever. Once Faergol’s armada was repelled, he would come home. He just needed to survive that long without breaking.

He could do that.


	5. Chapter 5

With a sigh, Rakhadar observed the empty seat to his right. He could almost feel his uncle’s I-told-you-so look, even though Guabohr was miles away, closing a portal by tower 44.

The morning rays were already pounding the common hall through the holes chopped in the wall, attacking his relatives and highest courtiers, who sat cross-legged on the floor around the low individual tables, eating and yawning, chatting and quarreling.

Zarbezahl tried addressing him, but Rakhadar’s mind was slipping away, so he asked to repeat each question twice and answered off the mark, and his adviser gave up.

Rakhadar woke at Bebukul’s loud burp.

‘Hey,’ he gave a curt shout, ‘I told you not to do that.’

With a grimace, his brother crossed his fingers in an obscene gesture and returned to the conversation with his friend, Zarbezahl’s daughter Kut’ha. Rakhadar saw suppressed smiles around the tables. He was about to give Bebukul another lecture on politeness and manner, when a messenger knelt by his side.

‘The elf is asking an audience, your Blaze.’

Rakhadar jumped to his feet, spilling his glass of curd into Zarbezahl’s lap. Cheeks pale, he followed the messenger outside the common hall. He took a breath—

…and let it out, as the elf that was standing in front of him was not Maegorn. He was met by Irillion, Maegorn’s… friend? cook? soldier? He never quite understood.

‘Thank you for seeing me, your Blaze.’ Irillion bowed and smiled. He did that a lot, the smiling. It made Rakhadar uncomfortable.

‘What is it you wish?’

The elf bowed again.

‘If I may, your Blaze, general Maegorn and I have a request.’ He looked up, and not hearing a protest straight away, continued. ‘The monthly trade, when elves leave oil and spice deliveries at the guard post – general and I were wondering if we could be allowed to include letters to our families with your gem payment.’

Rakhadar clasped his hands behind his back and took a moment to settle his breathing: he suspected whom Maegorn’s letters would be addressed.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange for your letters to be picked up and left at the guard post with our payment.’

Irillion smiled wider. ‘There’s no need, your Blaze, I could deliver the letters myself.’

Rakhadar tilted his head and repeated with emphasis, ‘I’ll arrange for your letters to be picked up and left at the guard post with our payment.’

The elf held his glance, his smile somewhat fading. ‘Of course, your Blaze.’ He turned to leave.

‘Irillion.’ Rakhadar waited for the elf to come closer and said, ‘Is there anything else I can do to make general’s life more… tolerable?’

Irillion’s smile returned. He thought a little.

‘General Maegorn is a soldier, your Blaze, a creature of habit. His life has changed in many a way, so any resemblance of his old routine would give him balance. If you could perhaps point me to a space where, undisturbed, we could spar a few hours before dawn, I’m sure it would make general happy.’

Happy. Wasn’t that too strong a word?

Rakhadar urged the elf towards a window. ‘You see the wide platform above the left slope? The Zest Bazaar is used to hold celebrations and evening markets, but in early hours no one will bother you there.’ This was a strategic choice: it was indeed a good sparring ground, but also, the platform was well-visible form the windows of his study. He wasn’t going to spy on Maegorn – he was not a child anymore – but he wanted to have this option, just in case.

Irillion bowed to him once more.

‘You are very kind, your Blaze.’

Was he?

His kindness came back to bite him three weeks later, when an enraged Guabohr caught up with him in a dark corridor.

‘What is this?’ he growled, brandishing the two letters in front of Rakhadar’s face.

‘These are called letters, uncle.’ He grabbed the papers out of Guabohr’s hands: on suspicion of treason, uncle would have no qualms opening the letters, never mind Rakhadar’s prohibition.

‘You’re letting him spy on us and then write reports to the pointy-ears?’

‘He’s not spying on us,’ Rakhadar huffed. ‘Maegorn has barely left his cave.’

‘And this is embarrassing. Why aren’t you making him attend the morning ceremony?’

Rakhadar told himself to stay patient. ‘I’m not going to make him do anything against his will. He’s not my prisoner.’

‘He doesn’t behave like your husband either.’ Guabohr’s scar twisted angrily. ‘They say you two haven’t even shared cave since you came back.’

A scalding needle pinched Rakhadar’s heart and sparks shot through the tips of his fingers. He clenched his teeth. The letters in his hands trembled, but Guabohr didn’t notice.

‘This is shameful,’ he kept yelling. ‘If you didn’t want him as your true husband, you shouldn’t have bonded with him. What joke of a marriage is this?’

Fire flared up in Rakhadar’s stomach. He tried to breathe, shun uncle’s voice, he even closed his eyes, but Guabohr’s voice was loud and clear and it drove into his ears like the buzz of a poison bee.

‘When Grundfjorn chose my brother he also had to immolate his personal wishes, and yet he was strong enough to recognize the responsibilities the title imposed. What kind of a capricious frangipani your pointy-ears is if he can’t even bother—’

A roar rumbled in Rakhadar’s chest and the next thing he knew, his fingers were covered with the dust of the letters he had burnt to ashes. The tips of his fingers were still emitting flames, so he fished his pockets for the pouch of salt which he was now always carrying with him. The fire was eating holes in his skirt where his fingers touched, and he kept saying, first in his mind, then – in a shaking whisper, ‘The fire doesn’t control you, you control the fire’, even though he knew the phrase wouldn’t help. He poured the contents of the pouch into his mouth, swallowed, coughed on the rough granules and waited for the fire to dull.

He wiped his forehead, then looked up. His uncle’s eyes were wide, and he stared at Rakhadar’s blackened fingers before saying anything.

‘You used to be able to control your mother’s gift,’ he said quietly.

Rakhadar put the empty pouch away. ‘You’ve always said I should be more like her. Is this what you want?’

Guabohr put his hands in his pockets.

‘The elf could show you more respect, that’s all I’m saying.’

Rakhadar took a few breaths, making sure his throat wasn’t on fire anymore.

‘If you touch these letters again, uncle, I swear I’ll challenge you.’

In the morning the seat to Rakhadar’s right was empty, and so it was the next, and the morning after that.

On the thirtieth day, the green light signaled two portals opening near tower 36, and Rakhadar grabbed at the opportunity to flee the castle for a demon raid.

About to set for the kennels, dressed in a freshly polished steel vest and a fireproof cloak, he was checking on his scimitar and his war scythe, when Zarbezahl approached him with a bow.

‘A moment of your time, your Blaze.’

‘Be quick.’

Zarbezahl shuffled from foot to foot, his bald head reflecting sunlight as brightly as Rakhadar’s steel vest, and Rakhadar frowned: his adviser was not one easily unsettled.

‘Something off?’

‘Before you leave for the raid, I hoped to get your decision on a certain matter.’

‘Is it about the elves’ letters again? Then my answer is still no. I don’t want these letters read, I don’t want to know what’s in them.’ He was scared to know what was in them.

‘No, your Blaze, it’s about something else.’ Zarbezahl clicked his tongue. ‘As you know, every morning three hours before dawn your husband and his elf spar at the Zest Bazaar. And it turns out, for two weeks now, they’ve been joined by... young Blaze.’

Rakhadar blinked. ‘Bebukul? Bebukul trains with Maegorn?’ Too many questions swarmed in his mind. Bebukul cared not for trainings. But for sleeping, pranking and partying, he cared for nothing at all. Rakhadar had been granted with the most uninterested brother in the world. ‘How did this happen?’

‘One morning young Blaze was coming back from one of his parties, and, as it was three hours before dawn and he was passing through The Zest Bazaar, he saw the sparring elves. Impressed with their fighting style, he asked to join, and they let him.’

‘And for two weeks…?’

‘For two weeks he has been rising three hours before dawn to train.’

‘What about his parties?’

‘He hasn’t been to a single one. Instead, he enticed his friends to join the trainings.’

Rakhadar rubbed the skin around his elbows. ‘For two weeks… Why are you telling me only now?’

‘I-I found out only today, your Blaze, from my daughter.’ Zarbezahl’s cheeks lightened with shame – nothing had ever escaped him before; missing something of this proportion right under his nose was beyond embarrassing. ‘I caught Kut’ha sneaking out at night, feared she was having a tryst, but when she admitted she engaged in the elven training, I didn’t know what to think.’ He sighed and straightened. ‘Before you left, I hoped to get your decision: would you want me to put an end to this?’

Rakhadar wrapped the scabbard around his waist and sheathed the scimitar.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Keep an eye on them. Make sure Bebukul doesn’t do anything stupid.’ He sighed. ‘Where is my brother now?’

Zarbezahl made a helpless gesture. ‘I’ll send a word to my assistants to look for young Blaze.’

‘If you find him before I leave, tell him to meet me in the kennels.’


	6. Chapter 6

The knock made Maegorn smile.

The first few times he’d heard the sound, he’d stared, wondering why the one outside wasn’t entering: he’d got familiar with doors on mainland, but not with knocking – a ritual redundant with elven hearing.

After another knock, he put down the feather, slid the unfinished letter inside a book and walked towards the door.

‘Who is there?’ he asked, delighted at the little game. His ears had already told him who his guest was.

‘It’s Bebukul.’

Maegorn opened the door. The young demon looked round and popped his head in.

‘May I hide in your cave?’

Waving in an invitation, Maegorn waited for him to slip inside, then closed the door. Quite unceremoniously, Bebukul flopped on the bed, sandals and all.

‘Who are you hiding from, noni-un?’

An exasperated growl. ‘From a stuck-up idiot,’ the boy said, waving his crossed fingers ceilingward. ‘My brother.’

Maegorn liked the young demon more by the day. Besides being a fun distraction from Maegorn’s routine of sparring, adding entries to the journal and staring at the walls wishing for the mountain to blow up, the boy avidly supported Maegorn’s animosity towards the dog king, which, now that Irillion was constantly engaged somewhere in the kitchens, had become an increasingly lonesome hobby. When they first met, Bebukul spoke hardly any Elvish, but was picking up quickly, especially the bad words and the funny expressions.

‘And why are you hiding?’

Bebukul stared at the sunrise painted on the ceiling.

‘What is _nonni-un_?’

‘Old Elvish for someone young.’ Maegorn sat down on the floor. He had got used to the absence of chairs, but sitting cross-legged was still troublesome, so he stretched his legs out.

‘Oh, we say _odagu jora_.’ Bebukul turned to his stomach and put a fist under his chin. ‘In Elvish it would be like… um… what do you call an elf-child?’

‘An elfling.’

‘So it’s a fire… ling. _Odagu jora_ is a fireling.’ The boy grabbed the book from the table and flipped the pages. Maegorn watched carefully, but Bebukul never noticed the letter. ‘Only I am not a child,’ he said, ‘I’m an adult.’

‘Indeed. Hiding from a brother is the epitome of mature behaviour.’

Bebukul chuckled. ‘Epitome,’ he repeated softly, as he always did when he wanted to remember a word he liked.

‘If I’m hiding a fugitive, I need to know what the threat is. Why is Rakhadar looking for you?’

Bebukul jerked his shoulders. ‘Probably to give me a lecture on how savage I am. That I burp or yawn or…’ he looked for a word and then acted it.

‘Spit,’ Maegorn supplied.

‘That I spit. I don’t know why it’s bad.’ He sat up. ‘I spit, uncle Guabohr spits, mother spit… Spat?’ He waited for Maegorn’s confirmation of the past form. ‘Brother says elves don’t spit. You don’t?’

Maegorn shook his head with amusement. ‘Not really.’

‘Well, it’s either that or even worse, he wants me to go to a council meeting.’ Bebukul pressed the palms to his cheeks and pulled his face down, revealing even more of the red eyeballs. ‘They are so bo-ring.’ The last word was a moan. ‘They talk and talk and it’s all… what do you say when it’s stupid and useless and fake talk?’

Maegorn paused. He probably shouldn’t be teaching young foreign prince to curse.

‘Bullshit,’ he said a moment later.

‘Bull-shit.’ Bebukul deconstructed the word and laughed. ‘This is good. We say _kodjak padap’ha_ – a drum for a goat.’

‘Why would a goat need a drum?’

‘Exactly.’

Maegorn propped a large cushion against the wall and reclined.

‘I used to hate council meetings when I was young, so I invented a game.’

Bebukul’s ears perked up. Those were funny little things. Maegorn had never had the chance to see demon ears so close, and they turned out quite adorable – fluffy flaps of skin, like a fawn’s, hanging slightly downwards, but perking up, if particularly engaged.

‘What game?’

‘I’d write up the names of the council members and choose their repetitive habits. Every time those came up – like king Silveryn touching his hair, or adviser Miluris saying ‘…and yet, your Grace’, my cousin cursing, or U’tron covering up a yawn with a cough – I would draw a tick next to their name. The winner of the list would be the one I’d prank that day.’

Bebukul flashed his teeth in a laugh.

‘I could try that. Every time Zarbezahl clicks his tongue or uncle Guabohr pounds his fist at the table, or brother tells me, ‘Hey, I told you not to do that’. This is more fun than listen to what they are saying. I’m not interested it their… bull-shit.’

Maegorn grabbed a small orange cushion and tossed it towards Bebukul. The boy caught it and sent it back.

‘I bet they discuss the same things we do.’ Maegorn threw the cushion once more. ‘Harvest planning?’

‘Zarbezahl has a special assistant for that, he only gives reports.’

‘Taxes?’ Maegorn aimed the missile high and Bebukul had to stretch up to catch it.

‘Our taxes haven’t changed for like a hundred years.’

They tested each other’s aim, sending the cushion in unexpected directions.

‘Military plans?’

‘Oh yes, a lot of that. The new portals and how to close them faster. They also talk about trade with mainland. And machines to dig gems.’

Maegorn put the cushion down. ‘For someone not interested you’re quite knowledgeable about the state affairs, young Blaze.’

Bebukul huffed, then stretched on the bed.

‘They talk about it for hours, it’s impossible not to hear things,’ he grumbled. ‘But I’m so boring.’

‘You mean you’re _bored_ ,’ Maegorn said, smiling. ‘In my experience, _bored_ is your mind’s excuse for one of the two things: you either don’t understand something or you’re scared of it. Your ignorance we’ve just ruled out, so… what is it you’re scared of, fireling?’

Bebukul jerked his chin up. ‘Nothing!’

‘This is a whole lot of goat’s drum.’

Bebukul gave a laugh. Then chewed on his lip. Then jumped up and paced the room. Maegorn watched him patiently: never had he seen a youngster so unable to sit still. Bebukul Fuss-Ass.

‘They all say smart things and then turn to me and expect me to speak. I’m even supposed to vote on important stuff. What if… what if I say something stupid? What will they think?’

‘Here is what they’ll think: ‘This young inexperienced demon just said something stupid because he is young and inexperienced. How entirely unsurprising.’ Everybody makes mistakes – that’s how you learn. But you want to make them while you still have the excuse of being young. Nobody’s perfect, Bebukul.’

‘Brother is.’

‘Is he now? How about the time he let U’tron fool him like a nincompoop chicken?’ Maegorn paused while Bebukul, red eyes excited and hopeful, settled next to him on the floor, whispering ‘nincompoop’. Maegorn cleared his throat. ‘I had just come back from my stay on mainland, while for your brother, I think, it was the first battle as captain. We were losing, badly, and getting tired. So at midnight, U’tron ordered a few of us to retreat, making the show of screaming and crying like a bunch of scared chimps, in the hope that Rakhadar, drunk of his first victory, would follow. And he did. Right until he was deep among the trees.’

‘Brother says it’s a superstition, trees are not dangerous.’

‘Not unless there is a hundred of elven archers sitting in the foliage. We killed half of his regiment and took the other half as prisoners. Grundfjorn paid us carts of gems to get her son back. She must have given your brother quite a thrashing afterwards. Following an elf into the jungle – how stupid is that?’

‘Pretty stupid,’ Bebukul said, but his smile wasn’t very cheerful. He smoothed down the folds of his skirt. ‘I’m glad the war is over, and I don’t have to fight you when I grow up.’

Maegorn looked down at his hands. ‘So am I.’ He sighed. ‘What I mean is, your brother’s mistake was costly, but never did he let us fool him again. He learnt.’ He sighed again. ‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t make other mistakes, of course.’

‘Mistakes like what?’

‘Like marrying me.’ Bebukul’s face drew in protest, so he added, ‘He’s a king, and I’m a male. And an elf to boot. I bet your council wasn’t happy about a blunder like that.’

Bebukul waved a hand. ‘Pff no. Brother had been in love with you for so long, and we had all grown so tired of his whining that when the proposal letter arrived, we thanked the Inferno Mother’ – a wiping gesture – ‘and voted for the marriage unanimously. Well, except for uncle.’

Maegorn frowned. ‘Rakhadar had been in love with me?’

‘Like a whimpering cub.’ Bebukul gave out a sardonic laugh. ‘One day I’ll show you the secret room he doesn’t let anyone see.’

Maegorn rubbed the scar on his right wrist. There was something he’d been meaning to ask, but he wasn’t sure it was appropriate.

‘Bebukul, what is _karachu idha oro_?’

The words felt like barking, thick and clumsy on his tongue, and he wasn’t sure he remembered them right, with how drunk he had been on his wedding night, but by Bebukul’s twinkling eyes and stretching lips, he guessed he was close enough.

‘He said this to you?’ His cheeks paled to light blue – Maegorn had worked out it was demons’ equivalent of blushing. ‘Well, it is… what’s a stronger word for burn?’

‘Blaze – it if burns on its own, and scorch – if you are the one to start the burning.’

‘Then this would be… _you scorch my blood_.’ Bebukul chuckled at Maegorn’s terrified expression. ‘This is how we say words of love. One says, _karachu idha oro_ – _you scorch my blood_ , and the other answers, _chodah tharog ida o_ – _my heart blazes for you_. How do elves say it?’

‘I love you.’

‘That’s it? Boring.’

Maegorn sat, caressing the tassels at the edge of the orange cushion. ‘I don’t think Rakhadar is in love with me. Or perhaps love means very different things for us.’

‘You want proof?’ Bebukul sat up and even his ears were quivering with excitement. ‘Every year we celebrate your Amass.’

‘Our harvest festival?’

‘U-huh. We do it all – the dances, the songs, the ingathering story, we even wear robes; but this year, after he returned from the wedding, brother cancelled the celebration. We begged him to reconsider and he said no, but I bet if you asked, he’d be like ‘Oh… umm… err… my love— I mean, Maegorn, umm… what color would you wish our matching robes to be?’’ Bebukul laughed at his own impression of his brother. ‘Oh please do it, please, it will be so much fun to watch, brother will be so embarrassed!’

Maegorn put the cushion away. ‘Demons’ understanding of fun is twisted.’

Bebukul’s shoulders sagged. He scratched the skin around his horn. His right one was just like all the others’, curved and grey, but the left one was only a nob. Maegorn wasn’t sure it was polite to ask.

‘Maegorn…’ Bebukul shifted on his cushion. ‘Why do you keep calling us demons? You… you’re one of us now. You don’t have to be mean.’

‘What’s wrong with _demon_?’

‘It’s a bad word, an insult, like...’ Bebukul lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘pointy-ears. Demon is an animal, a beast, the one that comes out of a portal. The one we kill during the raids.’

Maegorn frowned, settling the new information. ‘Then what should I call you?’

Bebukul looked ceilingward, whispering to himself, ‘ _Joro idha_ …’

‘A fire-blood,’ he announced, his smile wide and proud. ‘We are firebloods.’


	7. Chapter 7

Rakhadar’s stomach threatened to digest itself if he didn’t put food in it that instant, and yet, he refused to be shoveling breakfast the way Bebukul was. Carefully scooping coconut stew with a piece of flatbread, he listened to Zarbezahl’s unofficial report of the castle events in his absence, but his eyes were focused on the chomping, burping, stew-stained and crumb-studded mess of his brother who was chewing with feral vigor, as if it were him who had been living on nothing but smutty dried bananas for a week-long raid.

‘There was another fight at the monthly trade post,’ Zarbezahl said, distracting him from getting annoyed with his brother.

Rakhadar turned to his adviser and grunted against the full mouth. Was it the fifth this year? The sixth?

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘A broken arm and a few bruises. One of the elves was knocked unconscious.’

‘Ashes,’ Rakhadar muttered. ‘What was it this time?’

‘According to Izul’s report, every fruit in ten was rotten and the firepepper pouches lacked three ounces each. When she noted this, the elves called her a lying dog and one of them… well, one of them barked.’

Rakhadar looked up from his food. Insults were customary – and reciprocal – but this was new.

‘What do the elves say?’

Zarbezahl clicked his tongue. ‘That our trading party called them moss-eating grasshoppers and…’

‘And?’ Of course there was more.

‘And that eleven rubies were fake.’

By the Inferno Mother. ‘Well, were they?’

‘I’m investigating it, your Blaze.’

Rakhadar briefly closed his eyes, as that meant they were, which, in turn, meant the incident would have to be brought up at the council. The opinions would then divide between Apka suggesting punishing the perpetrators and Guabohr demanding to award them, and while Rakhadar would vote for giving the culprits their due, last time he had to whip someone, he left the Zest Bazaar with bleeding scars all over his own heart.

Why did it always have to come down to this? Couldn’t they be civil to each other in matters of business, if sympathy and respect were out of the question? His naive hopes of his marriage heralding a new era of friendship between the neighbors had died… through his own doing. The memory of the wedding night hung over him a black poisonous shroud. How could he have said those hateful, degrading words to Maegorn? How could he have threatened him? Humiliated? How could he have touched him without permission? The confusing drink was no excuse, and neither was talk he’d overheard earlier. He had been a demon that night. Plain and simple. He feared to imagine what he would have done, had Maegorn not battered him up like a _jakothar_ chew toy. The memory of the heavy hand was still fresh. Rakhadar’s jaw complained every time he opened it for a fire spew. That pain was the only thing keeping him from plunging into the darkness of despair.

A loud burp interrupted his bout of self-loathing. He gave Bebukul a glare and was responded to by a crooked smile. The smile that was way too familiar and scarier than dog pox. What was the little demon up to? What new prank had he—

Dropping the flatbread, Rakhadar sprang to his feet. His relatives and courtiers stopped mid-meal and mid-sentence and rose respectfully, looking about for the source of their king’s distraction.

Their king’s distraction was tall, wide-shouldered and dark-haired, dressed in a light tunic and leggings; it walked unhurriedly across the room, and with a curt bow sat crossed-legged on the seat to the king’s right.

Rakhadar lowered and so did everyone else. Dead silence lasted for a few endless minutes, until firebloods’ hunger prevailed over their discomfort, and the dramatic chomping resumed.

With a white napkin, Rakhadar wiped his hands. There were still traces of dried demon blood under his claws, so he curled his fingers into his palms and placed them on his lap.

Instead of hungry, he was nauseated. It was one thing knowing that somewhere in the heart of the jungle, Maegorn was living his amazing elven life, sparring with U’tron, fighting with Le’unn, and just generally being handsome and brave and unattainable, and a completely different thing to find out that he smelled like the after-rain jungle – earthy and mysterious – and his skin radiated cool that was soothing and tingly, and that his jaw tightened a little when he was this focused, and that he was now in the habit of lightly flipping his braids out if his face – it was a new thing, Rakhadar hadn’t seen it before. It was gorgeous, too. Of course, it was.

Rakhadar tried to breathe against the painful thumping of his heart.

He had dreamed of seeing, feeling, smelling Maegorn by his side, but now he wasn’t sure he could stomach it. Especially when Irillion put a plate of something green, tangy and steaming in front of Maegorn.

Rakhadar almost jumped when Zarbezahl tapped him on the arm. ‘As I was saying, your Blaze, last Thirdday we were blessed with seven more—’

‘Speak Elvish, Zarbezahl,’ Rakhadar said sharply. He wouldn’t have Maegorn feel excluded from the conversations around him.

Zarbezahl’s ears tensed. Elvish wasn’t his strong suit.

‘I-I say, your Blaze, I say last Twosday— no, Thirdday we have… we has,’ he lifted his eyes ceilingward, counting under his breath from one to six, ‘… seven more… umm… _jakothar_ baby.’ With a nervous breath, he wiped his brow.

‘Are all the cubs healthy?’ Rakhadar asked, from the corner of the eye watching Maegorn wield a small shiny knife and a curvy fork with grace matching a flame dancer.

‘Healthy, yes,’ Zarbezahl nodded. ‘One havs no…’ Cheeks extremely pale, he waved a hand behind his backside.

‘Tail?’ Bebukul helped. His eyes were also fixed on the way Maegorn was carving up his strange food. ‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘Looks like it has already been eaten.’ Incredibly, the boy’s Elvish, while still accented, was free and natural; he didn’t pause to look for words and his intonation… it was Maegorn’s intonation.

‘Fried lotus stems,’ Maegorn said very nicely and even gave the boy a smile.

‘Grass.’ Bebukul grimaced, but his eyes were bubbling with curiosity. ‘Sounds awful.’

‘Want to try?’

Bebukul moved his table out of the way. Still sitting on the cushion, he stretched his legs forward and pulled up his butt, the cushion gliding softly along the polished floor. Smiles and giggles rustled at his jerky progression across the room.

‘Bebukul,’ Rakhadar said darkly.

‘It’s fine,’ Maegorn said without looking his way.

With a smirk, the smutty brat used his clumsy padded transport to get in front of Maegorn’s table. He sniffed the elven food and cringed. Maegorn offered the fork, but Bebukul regarded it with suspicion and stuck his already food-stained fingers straight into the green dish. He scooped a generous portion, and when it was halfway to his mouth, upturned Rakhadar’s spice bowl on top. He chewed experimentally, his cheek pouches swelling like a chipmunk’s, screwed up in concentration, and then snapped his eyes open.

‘This is so good,’ he announced to Maegorn, and turned towards the fireling at Zarbezahl’s side. ‘Kut’ha, this is so good.’ Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he looked up at Irillion, who stood quietly in the doorway. ‘Make me some!’ At Maegorn’s lifted eyebrow he added, ‘Please?’

Rakhadar clenched his jaws and checked the pocket for the salt pouch. Their friendly exchanges were sizzling his insides. He switched his attention to his cousins Izul and Farhusa who were bickering over the last firepepper pie: the girls’ faces identical in everything but the scars, they fought at the dinner table just as vehemently as on the battlefield.

He couldn’t ignore what was happening to his right for long.

‘If you like this, you should try our anise buns,’ Maegorn said, holding out a drop of sweet-smelling bread to Bebukul. ‘We always make them for Amass.’

At the word, Rakhadar’s ears went cold.

‘The holiday is a few weeks away,’ Maegorn said, finally looking in his direction. ‘I heard Amass was honoured here as well. Is there to be a celebration this year?’

Never had Rakhadar wanted to snap off his brother’s only horn more than today. The mouthy little piece of ash. Who else could have ratted him out?

He cleared his throat. The words still didn’t come, so he cleared it again.

‘Ours is but a bleak version of elven festivities.’

‘And yet it would give me much joy to feel a piece of home on such a special day.’

‘Of course, general…’ Rakhadar cringed. Why was he addressing him so officially? This was his _churohi_ – his lawful husband. ‘I mean, Maegorn. Of course.’

His cheeks were paling too quickly for his liking, so right after the painful shame of standing on his fours during the morning prayer, he jumped to his feet. So did everyone else.

‘Zarbezahl, take care of the preparations.’

After his adviser's bow, he left the common hall, bolted upstairs and locked the door. When his stomach calmed, he ordered some coconut stew to be delivered to his room and he ate it. Alone.

For the next two weeks, Rakhadar starved. Unable to ingest anything but salt – which he gobbled up in handfuls to put down the fire in his stomach – during every meal he sat, nervously tearing flatbread to pieces, watching his court through Maegorn’s eyes and being painfully aware of how savagely demonic it was: Zarbezahl licked his fingers, Jasofrah scratched her breasts, Guabohr wiped his hands at his skirt and his cousins Izul and Farhusa laughed with bits of food spraying out of their wide mouths. And all of them, without exception, burped. Not a single muscle twitched in Maegorn’s face, and yet, nothing escaped him. Rakhadar had no doubt.

His worst torture, by far, became Amass. Sweating under the silvery robes, he was fidgeting on an embroidered cushion and noting everything that made their celebration a pathetic parody of the elven sacred holiday. Which, despite his best effort – the flowers, the robes, the food, all delivered right from Frawvanna – was _everything_.

Firebloods didn’t play lutes or harps; the instrument of their choosing was a volcanic drum, and as the thunderous pounding announced the beginning of the evening, Maegorn tensed and clenched his fists in a reflex to unsheathe his swords: for years this sound had meant the beginning of a battle. Even the fact that the rhythmic booming was performing ‘Another year of joy and blessing’ was not making it better.

Next came the dancers. Fireblood females had curvier bodies – Rakhadar had seen the way elves gaped at Jasofrah’s mounds – so even with bellies covered, their movements, instead of sending gratitude to the Spirits for the abundant harvest, invited the holy lords into the nearest cave for a much more intimate thanking.

The apogee of the evening – and Rakhadar’s greatest fear – was the Ingathering play. Paying no heed to the colourful act, he surveyed Maegorn’s mildest reactions.

A few minutes into the performance, Maegorn frowned.

‘Is this ‘Serell’s Fight with the Hydra?’’

Rakhadar nodded. ‘Serell’s epos fit well into our ancient myths, so I translated the play.’

With an incredulous smile, Maegorn watched the act, and Rakhadar thanked the Inferno Mother it was performed in Firetongue – Maegorn wouldn’t have been this amused knowing in what words exactly Serell expressed his displeasure at his brother’s betrayal or the unambiguous lyrics of the serenade he sang for Ayerulis. All this Rakhadar had changed to help his kin relate to the story, and successfully so: each of his creative twists was met with howling laughter, sympathetic booing or shocked gasps – all despite it was the third year in a row that the act was being performed. Maegorn watched the actors and the audience’s reactions, but, as the story progressed, with the vicious fire monster destroying Serell’s home and the hero journeying to the ocean, his brows drew closer. When Serell mounted the hydra and rode it to take revenge on the flaming giant, Maegorn turned to him.

‘You know ‘Fight with the Hydra’ means Serell fought _against_ the hydra?’

Rakhadar shifted on his cushion.

‘Our legends say that ages ago a fire monster – Death-All – was raging inside the mountain, putting the sky on fire and flooding the island with rivers of burning ash, until our first voted queen gained friendship with a water monster – a five-headed Akh’waghir – and with its help stripped Death-All of its power. Eventually, she died of wounds, becoming one with the mountain and… our Mother.’ He quickly swiped a hand over his lips. ‘I had to change your story, as demons wouldn’t have understood.’

Maegorn gave him a confused look and turned back towards the show.

‘I thought _demon_ was an insult,’ he said.

By the end of the play Maegorn had changed his position about a hundred times – shifting his weight on one leg, then the other, folding his feet under his buttocks, and at last stretching his legs, ignoring all etiquette. Rakhadar contemplated offering his cushion, but decided against drawing attention to Maegorn’s discomfort.

A few moments after the final appreciative howls of the audience, a light-cheeked and disheveled Bebukul emerged, like an ash ghost – sudden, loud and unwanted – in front of their seats.

‘What did you think of my act?’ he asked, addressing his question solely to Maegorn, however difficult it was to exclude Rakhadar, who sat a breadth away, from their conversation.

‘I didn’t see you on stage, fireling,’ Maegorn said.

‘I was the hydra. The head on the right.’

‘The hydra was brilliant, and its right head gave by far the best performance.’

Bebukul beamed. ‘The official part is over, but we’re going to have some more fun, the Young Fire regiment and I.’

The Young Fire regiment? Was that what they called the twelve firelings that trained under Maegorn’s supervision every morning three hours before dawn? It had been a few weeks now, and it showed: Bebukul’s soft body had grown tight, his arms had gained muscle and instead of a childish belly in the gap between the top and the skirt now there was a proud display of nascent abs.

‘We’re going to the cave to swim in a… a _chapadabha_ , will you come?’ Bebukul said.

Maegorn hesitated at such an articulate offer, and Rakhadar intervened.

‘You should go,’ he said softly. ‘ _Chapadabha_ is a warm-water lake inside the mountain, and it’s beautiful this time of year.’ He tried to smile. ‘Take a guiding light, the way through the cave might be dark.’

As Maegorn lifted, rubbing his cramped knees, Bebukul jumped and yapped like a jakothar cub at his first demon bone. ‘We’ll be walking through a… a tube, and the walls are full of gems. Shiny, like stars. And in the lake, there is this fish, it glows red and blue and yellow if you kick it.’

‘Why would I kick a fish?’

‘It’s fun! Oh, and do you want to climb the rocks and jump into the lake from the top maybe? Do you want to catch a _crubba_ and fry it and eat right from the shell? Also, how do I look in a robe?’ He was overtaken by a new thought before Maegorn could answer any of that. ‘And at midnight we’ll go to tower 56. It’s so tall, we’ll see elven fireworks, and also...’

Rakhadar watched them walk away.

‘ _Karachu idha oro,_ ’ he whispered.

He straightened when a heavy form lowered on his left. With a nudge of an elbow, Jasofrah held out half a firepepper pie.

‘Eat,’ she said without any address. They’d grown together, given each other their first scars; Jasofrah had been the first soul Rakhadar confessed he would never marry a female. Once he became king, she treated him respectfully with others around, but when he tried to extend the same line of behavior to their private conversations, she punched him in the face until he reassessed his understanding of their friendship.

Rakhadar stared at the food and then looked up questioningly.

‘You haven’t eaten for weeks,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to collapse during the next raid.’

Now Rakhadar vaguely remembered his advisers and officers approaching him throughout the week, always with some food in hand that they suddenly felt like sharing, or giving to him altogether, which he always accepted, too hungry and overwhelmed to analyze. Had they been discreetly feeding him?

‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a bite. ‘I assume you wanted something?’ Whatever it was, he didn’t expect her to dance about it: Jasofrah had the subtlety of a bludgeon.

‘When are you going to take him to the Inferno Mother?’ Seeing that Rakhadar was too busy chewing, she continued, ‘You’re not the only one, you know. At least you are bonded by elven standards, while I am married by none, and Ruhgar won’t wait forever.’ She looked towards the stage at the bare-chested musician and her eyes glazed over. Ruhgar was a flaming drummer, and, despite the shortest horns among the males, a highly desired candidate. According to Jasofrah, his _third_ _horn_ could compete in size with his drumming hammers.

‘I know, I know,’ Rakhadar sighed. ‘I will. Give me a few more days.’

He paused as a messenger knelt beside him – three portals in the vicinity of towers 37 to 39. Guabohr was already dealing with demons somewhere higher up the mountain, so this was up to Rakhadar’s regiment.

He finished the pie and got up. ‘I’ll do it after we’re back.’

The scythe’s bloodied hilt was sleek in Rakhadar’s hands, so he tightened his grip and swung again. The Crabber’s head burst like a rotten melon, spraying bits of flesh and covering his steel vest with gooey blood. Rakhadar blinked the grit out of his eyes and stepped over the sagging carcass.

Far away in the morning haze, as a stark contrast to the sickening gore under his sandals, the shadow of Tower 37 was a graceful diaphanous ghost, trembling in the mist. The green fire was still burning on top of it, a dazzling emerald mop of disheveled hair, tousled by the gusts of icy wind. As always, Rakhadar’s claws itched for some ink and paper, so he shook his head, chasing the ill-timed lyricism away, and took a sober look around. This was no time for daydreaming.

He stepped away from the serrated edges of a fissure that gaped in the steep slope like a broken loaf of pulse bread, and his sandals turned on the shifting scree. He barely caught his balance and when he straightened, a pair of Hollerers had already circled him, snapping their maws in high-pitched growls, showing multiple rows of knife-like teeth. He lunged towards the closest one – it jumped back with a yelp, while the other attacked him from behind. He was expecting this and thrust his scythe in a curve, slashing off the demon’s clawed arms. Before the first one attacked again, he struck this beast across the chest: his scythe slit the spiked rib cage open and the demon dropped to the ground. Rakhadar twirled – the other monster was too close. The demon took a breath, preparing to burn him, but Rakhadar was faster: a bottleful of oil already in his belly, he opened his mouth to spew fire—

A thin quivering line of smoke escaped his lips, the bottom of his stomach growing hollow and deadly cold. Quickly, he breathed again and there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Rakhadar’s ears pressed to the back of his head. It had to be all the salt he’d been eating – it had quenched his fire and left him weak, defenseless… a flame-out.

He had no time to duck or cover before the demon’s fire hit him in the chest. Shuddering under the stream of pain, he toppled to the ground and went into a skid, howling, his head bumping against the rocks. The cavernous grin of the fissure drew closer to swallow him. He stuck his claws into the sliding scree, slipped, thrust them harder, grabbing frantically at the shale. The demon was right after, spewing again and again, never giving him a moment to get up. He slowed down at last, just when his foot slipped over the edge, the sandal plunging into the fiery abyss.

Another stream of fire hit him in the shoulder. He curled into a ball and pulled the cloak over his head, but the beast’s spew was steady and raw, and even the fireproof cloak had its limits. Rakhadar whimpered. Now fire-less, he only had a chance in the melee, however much the demon would burn him as he lunged for the scythe. He shielded his eyes, bracing for the pain.

The fire attack ceased, as did the hissing and the scraping of claws against the stone.

Cautiously, Rakhadar lowered his cloak.

‘Uncle?’

Guabohr’s massive figure was looming above the demon’s smoldering body, and under the disappointed stare Rakhadar felt a little boy again, being punished for shirking his gem lore lessons for the sake of Elvish. Guabohr knelt beside him, his blackened scar twitching like a lightning in a stormy sky.

Rakhadar winced, letting him assess his burns, waiting for the roars to come. They didn’t take long.

‘Is this what you want to become?’ Guabohr growled, tearing off the shrubs of his melted armor. ‘A flame-out?’ For a while he was blissfully silent, licking at Rakhadar’s charred skin, but every time he finished healing one spot and moved to another, the yelling resumed. ‘Look what the pointy-ears has done to you… You don’t eat, you don’t sleep… you look like an ash ghost… How long till you run out of fire?’

The pain had ebbed, and Rakhadar could finally speak.

‘I didn’t… run out, it sneaked up on me—’

‘Don’t you lie to me! I saw what happened – that pathetic joke of a spew. You were lucky I was coming back from my raid and Farhusa told me you’d chased a demon up this slope. What if there had been an Incinerator? You’d have got your whole regiment killed.’

‘I-I—’

‘And what if you can’t make fire at the Young Fire festival? Will we be doomed to a year of darkness?’ Guabohr grunted. ‘You must stop this. The pointy-ears is a boon.’

‘It’s not his fault.’

‘Is it not? Will you also tell me that the portals opening thrice as often since your wedding is not his fault either? You’ve broken tradition. This needs to end, and if you don’t do it – I will. At the next council meeting I’m proposing your divorce—’

‘Don’t you do this, uncle.’

‘—Zarbezahl always clucks about how thin you’ve become, he’ll back me up; Mabgurun—’

‘Uncle!’

‘—Mabgurun hates all pointy-ears, and Apka—’

‘If you do this, I’ll run off to mainland, like father did in his youth!’ Rakhadar had to shout to be heard.

For a moment, Guabohr stared, checking whether he was serious. Rakhadar stared back, showing that he was more than. It was hard to say which prospect scared Guabohr more – to lose a voted king or to be stuck with raising Bebukul, but either way, his face showed he wasn’t going to take the risk. And yet he could still be a major pain in the rear and turn Maegorn’s life even more miserable, so Rakhadar put a hand on his uncle’s shoulder.

‘I’ll stop eating salt, I promise.’

Still frowning, Guabohr took care of the rest of his burns and lifted.

‘The smutty frangipani will be our downfall,’ he said, walking down the cliff. ‘Mark my words.’

Rakhadar examined his blackened skin. It would take a couple more days to heal completely, but at the moment it didn’t even hurt anymore. Unlike knowing that somewhere inside the mountain, Bebukul was living his dream: swimming with Maegorn in the lake, eating a crubba and, now that it was almost midnight, going up tower 56 to watch elven fireworks.

With a sigh, he picked up his scythe and stood. It was time to go back and get ready for the second wedding.


	8. Chapter 8

‘A trip to the Inferno Mother sounds exciting,’ Irillion said on their way to Maegorn’s cave.

‘What? Haven’t you been listening to Bebukul?’ Maegorn said, climbing another flight of stairs and cursing this demonic way to torture him – just how much easier it was to climb a tree...

Irillion smiled his childish smile. ‘It’s their sacred place and no elf has seen it before.’

‘What an honour,’ Maegorn said, working his damp hair into a braid: the warm-water lake had indeed been fun. ‘I can’t wait to jump into the crater and proclaim my undying love for the dog king.’

He heard a soft sigh and turned, catching a glimpse of Irillion’s face. Unsmiling.

They climbed more stairs.

‘Good night, my lord,’ Irillion said at his door.

‘Wouldn’t you come in?’ Maegorn asked. ‘We both could use some help to unwind.’

Again, Irillion’s smile faded momentarily. And then it returned. ‘Of course,’ he said softly.

What was the matter with him? Was he homesick? Lonely? Low of spirit? He could probably use some distraction.

‘Can you believe the joke of Amass we had to witness today?’ Maegorn asked as the soft fingers glided along his naked back. ‘Now I understand why Rakhadar wanted to cancel the celebration. Probably didn’t want us to see the savage pounding of ‘Another year of joy and blessing’, the slutty rendition of the worship dance and the butchering of Serell’s story. And the pathetic decorations? Poor frangipani flowers yelling ‘We don’t belong here!’ And just how ridiculous demons looked in our celebratory robes? Mangy dogs in lace and chiffon…’

Nothing but a careful breath came out of Irillion.

‘What… What did you think of it?’ Maegorn asked.

The silence was filled with the soft patting of oily fingers along his skin.

‘I think… I think they tried their best to blend our festival and their old traditions. It couldn’t have been easy for his Blaze to introduce an elven holiday to the firebloods.’

Maegorn noted both, _firebloods_ for _demons_ and _his_ _Blaze_ for _the dog king_. Just how much time was Irillion spending with the locals behind his back?

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you can’t tell me you actually enjoyed the pathetic spectacle.’

‘I enjoyed the effort.’

Maegorn scoffed, and somehow it made Irillion lose his patience.

‘How easy do you think it was for Rakhadar to translate Serell’s story into Firetongue, adapt the songs and the dances? And how much do you think it cost him – the food and the robes and the damn flowers? They say this year was the most grandiose, lavish celebration, and it forced his Blaze to loosen the purse strings, which he did, despite Silveryn charging him twice for every petal.’

‘If it was such a bother, why do it in the first place?’

‘For you!’ Irillion said, his voice wavering. ‘They say he did it all for you.’

Maegorn twisted his neck to look at him.

‘And just who are _they_ in _they_ _say_?’

Irillion stopped his ministrations and went quiet. Immediately, Maegorn regretted the whole exchange: least of all he wanted to fall foul of his only friend in this bleak place.

‘Irillion—’ he started and paused, as Irillion’s hands slithered around his waist towards his groin. So they were fine? Irillion wasn’t upset after all? Maegorn sighed with relief, but as the hands withdrew, he stared at the vial of oil that had been placed on his lap.

He heard soft footsteps and then the door opened and closed.

A trip to the Inferno Mother was not the safest or easiest journey, so once a month all couples that desired a bond traveled together, marrying in a batch and making sure everyone got out alive. Lovers would descend into the heart of the mountain, through a passage that opened into the main chamber, kneel facing the Mother’s glowing eye and promise to love each other until their horns fell off or some such. Since Maegorn knew no Firetongue, his role was minimal: he was to kneel quietly and say ‘yes’ – _haa_ – when instructed. All this had been explained to him in very bad Elvish by a stuttering Coconut-Head, who at that point shuffled his feet and paled and avoided looking into his eyes. 

‘And then… and then…’ he clicked his tongue and finished sternly, ‘you are praise Inferno Mother. You are spend night in bonding cave and go home when rise of sun.’ He turned to leave but stalled in the doorway. ‘No metal, will burn you. And dress light. It hot.’

Maegorn put on his usual tunic, leggings and boots, quite convinced that a bit of heat was something an elf could handle. He was wrong. His clothes were soaking wet as he was walking among the half-naked demons. Their small procession was led by Coconut-Head – as the King’s adviser, he had the power to tie marital bonds – and tailed by Bebukul, who had earned his place in the expedition by excessive whining and vehement finger-crossing. Except Rakhadar and Maegorn, there were three more couples: Fire-Breasts was holding hands with a stocky demon specimen with very unimpressive horns; a muscle-bound male Maegorn had seen in battle but didn’t have a tag for was walking next to a youngster with the longest hair he’d seen on a demon – it reached the girl’s shoulder blades and was arranged in a dozen of gem-decorated knots; and finally there was a couple of short-haired wild-looking females who apparently couldn’t keep their hands off each other, locking their painted horns and giggling like two horny goats.

Before coming to Jorotaja, Maegorn had somehow assumed all demons looked the same. But now, the more he bothered to pay attention, the more he saw his mistake: he’d only met uniform-clad warriors, while among the inhabitants of the castle, the skirt was the only constant. There were demons of all sorts and sizes, with hair cut and worn in a thousand various styles, their tops and skirts multi-colored and differently-tailored; even their skin ranged from deep indigo, like Rakhadar’s and Bebukul’s, to steel blue, like Fire-Breasts’.

They all stank like dogs, though.

The passage they were now going through bore deep underground, its rocky walls oblique and smooth, as if created by a giant rock-eating worm, or – closer to reality – a gushing burst of liquid fire. Maegorn tried to breathe normally, but the air scorched his nostrils and filled his lungs with dust. The heat dulled his senses. Blood thumped in his ears, muffling his footsteps, rushing sweat down his back. His tongue swelled and when he stuck it out to lick the dryness off his lips, he didn’t feel any change.

And yet they descended even further into the heart of the mountain, until the tube ended with a platform that jutted out from the inner side of the crater.

Standing at the edge of the precipice, Coconut-Head called Fire-Breasts and her Wee-Horns, and as they kneeled by his side, he barked and waved his hands, and they listened, eyes wide and mouths open. At his motion, a teary-eyed Fire-Breasts barked her vows, her scanty top bursting at each shaky breath. Then came the turn of her chosen, and his barking was curt and rhythmic, like a drum roll. She leaned down and he reached up and their lips met halfway in a tender kiss Maegorn never expected the feral captain to be capable of. They parted, and barked something in chorus, pressing the backs of their hands to their mouths in a wiping gesture. The praise to their Inferno Mother.

The two other couples followed, the process just as dull and repetitive, the only variety added by the two females, who, at the time of the kiss, threw themselves at each other with excessive passion, until a disconcerted Coconut-Head barked them apart.

It was their turn then.

Sweating even harder, Maegorn stepped towards the edge. He peered below: deep down, a spot of bright orange glowed, bubbled, stared – the unblinking eye of the Inferno Mother.

Rakhadar knelt and he followed. After Coconut-Head’s speech, Rakhadar spoke, his barking soft and almost song-like and when he finished, the demons were wiping their eyes. Maegorn’s vows were delivered by Coconut-Head himself, and when he fell silent, Maegorn forced a quiet ‘haa’ out of his throat. Rakhadar leaned in and Maegorn let him touch his lips. With his senses muted by the heat, he felt nothing.

Pulling away, he met the demon’s eyes – a deep bloody red with a wide horizontal pupil. Watching him pleadingly, Rakhadar whispered the prayer to his Inferno Mother, accompanied it with the wiping gesture and waited for him to repeat.

Maegorn tried to open his mouth – his lips wouldn’t part. Once, as an elfling, he’d broken his arm, and it felt the same: he knew the hand was there, he saw it hanging loosely by his side, and yet he had no control of it.

The demons’ silence around him was tense and the more he stood, unable to speak, the louder it grew.

He looked up at Rakhadar. Did he know what he was asking? Maegorn had heard his quiet love confession after the Amass. ‘ _Karachu idha oro.’_ _You scorch my blood_ , was that the translation? Rakhadar wasn’t stupid, did he really think he was in love? Even if his feelings weren’t limited to mere power hunger, Amass showed he was simply in love with the elven culture: this accounted for his interest in their stories, language, lore. Instead of Maegorn, it could have been any elven male in his place. Then why—

Maegorn’s breath caught and he dropped his glance. Why did it have to be him kneeling on this stupid rock, in the crater of this stupid volcano, stripped of his dignity, family and hope, about to give up the last piece of what made him an elf, about to betray his Spirits—

Angry tears swelled in his eyes and, surprisingly, they sobered him up. When had he become such a whiny mess? He looked back at his conversations with Irillion: in the past few months, had he said anything except complaint or self-pity? Was that what had driven Irillion away? Suddenly, all he wanted was for this to be over.

‘Blessed be the Inferno Mother.’ He ran the back of his palm over his mouth in a motion with which he would rip a bandage stuck to a dried-up wound. It left the same scar on his soul, raw and bleeding, but it was done with.

All together, they moved back along the passage and took a turn that opened into a wide chamber with multiple narrow corridors radiating from it like sun rays. Each couple took a different path: Fire-Breasts propelled Wee-Horns with a slap on his butt; the long-haired girl sheepishly followed her male; the two horny females latched onto each other and staggered blindly into the darkness with slurps and moans. Coconut-Head took Bebukul’s hand and lead him away.

The air grew so thick, Maegorn forced his throat to swallow.

Rakhadar waved at one of the passages and slowly, they walked inside. A small guiding light in his hands scattered soft red rays along the walls. After a few very audible breaths, the demon spoke.

‘I… thank you for what you did today. It couldn’t have been easy.’

They walked some more, and he spoke again.

‘But… your Spirits are kind, they wouldn’t charge you for your sidestep. They’ll see you had no choice.’

The corridor ended with a small cave, earthy and bare, with nothing but a flat rock of a bed in the middle. There wasn’t even a bedsheet.

Rakhadar gave a nervous laugh. ‘Besides, as Rung’ellon wrote, your Spirits have been worshiped by so many elves for so many millennia, they could use some competition.’

Maegorn whipped his head to him. ‘What?’

‘I-I meant no offense.’ Rakhadar’s eyes widened and his awkward smile fell. ‘Rung’ellon was an elven thinker from—’

‘I know who Rung’ellon was.’ How in the name of Spirits did a demon know that? No, it didn’t matter. Maegorn wasn’t in the mood to discuss ancient elven philosophers with the shadow of the bed making his palms sweat. ‘What is to happen now?’

Rakhadar looked away. ‘There is not much I can do to make it more comfortable for you, but here, take this.’ He held out the guiding light. ‘Go there and try to sleep. I’ll… I’ll stay here.’ And just as he said, he sat cross-legged at the entrance to the cave, with his back towards the bed, and leaned against the wall.

Maegorn watched him for a bit and walked inside. Settling the guiding light on the floor, he lowered on the hard rock. The demon’s shadow loomed at a distance, straight and unmoving, the horns distorted by the soft red light into long beetle-like antennae.

The ceiling of the cave was high and bumpy, and in the middle, it formed a vertical tube that went up and up and ended with a faraway dot of the sky. Again, Maegorn saw the stars, and again, they cared not. And the longer he stared, the faster the room shrank around him, its walls trapping him in a circular cell, humid, moldy and foul, his feet plunging into the frozen quaggy muck, the swarm of tiny creeping appendages brushing against his ankles… Feverishly, he jerked his hand towards the crystal box and shook—

The blinding red light filled the cave… Just a cave, dry and bare. Not a well. A cave. He wiped his brow and willed his muscles to relax.

How had he got into that well? Through his own stupidity, of course. They’d been playing hide-and-seek in the Lunalin forest, and he’d thought he’d found the perfect place to hide. Idiot. The well was too deep for him to climb out of, and too far away for anyone to hear him. For hours he screamed, and when his throat was raw, and his fingers were bleeding from scaling the festering walls, he gave up, sobbing his useless prayers to the Spirits and clutching at the slippery stones.

Now he clutched at the guiding light in the same way, ramming his fingers into the sleek edges of the cool box, dimming it to a gentle maroon. Calming his breathing, he concentrated on the horned shape – it sat at the entrance like the guarding monster at his door.

He didn’t expect he would fall asleep, but he did. In his dream, distorted and blurry, an orange eye watched him, unblinking; it pierced him with a hateful glare, burning him alive…

He shuddered and woke with a hiss. Just a dream.

Then why was his right side – the side he was lying on – in blistering pain? He sat up, staring at the skin on the back of his hand, angry red and swollen. He hissed again, as his buttocks were heating up, and hopped off the rock. The floor was even hotter, his soles ached, so he tore off his tunic – it came off his shoulder and ribs together with the skin – threw it over his boots and stepped on the heap.

He turned at the yelp from the entrance – Rakhadar was there, face twisted in shock, red eyes popping out, and the next moment the demon was pulling off his top and throwing it under Maegorn’s feet. Facing the corridor, he gave a howl that shook the walls, and, in a heartbeat, the other demons were there, some huffing of panic, some – of interrupted love-making. They were turning their heads around, tense and hunched like leopards on a prowl. Tense, but not in pain – their thick skin protected them from the damage. So far.

‘Everyone here?’ Rakhadar checked on Bebukul. ‘We need to get out—’

There came a low skin-crawling rumble that was coming from deep below the mountain, followed by a tremor that made Maegorn almost lose his footing.

‘Another one,’ Fire-Breasts said, looking back towards the passage, as if expecting something – someone – to appear.

A deafening high-pitched screech from at least a dozen throats sounded to their left. And the thumping of feet. And the scraping of claws against the stone.

Zarbezahl barked, his tone panicky enough to send a rush of cold sweat down Maegorn’s back.

‘They are inside the mountain,’ Rakhadar translated. ‘They might be blocking the passage.’

‘They?’ Maegorn demanded.

‘Demons.’

Maegorn looked towards the piercing animalistic howls and back at the firebloods around him. They were calm, Bebukul even excited, although none had a weapon. Maegorn shifted on his pile of clothing – he could barely stand.

‘Then how do we get out?’ he asked.

Rakhadar looked him in the eyes and then up towards the faraway dot of sky in the ceiling. ‘We fly.’

Maegorn’s stomach churned.

So this was no myth? Firebloods could fly? Some elves had said they had seen Grundfjorn fly up the tree right before she had killed his father, but he’d never believed. This was impossible.

Maegorn had often dreamed of flying, but now he looked up into the narrow tube, then back at the trembling passage, and he wasn’t sure which death he preferred.

Flashing his eyes over the firebloods, Rakhadar gave instruction as to their order.

‘Zarbezahl,’ he said to Coconut-Head, ‘take Bebukul.’

‘I can fly by myself,’ the fireling whined, dancing from one foot to another – his young soles must have hurt, too. Under Rakhadar’s swift but deadly glare he shrunk and shut up.

The firebloods reached into the folds of their skirts and produced bottles of oil that were fastened to their belts with bright woven ribbons. They gulped the liquid, wiped their mouths in a gesture identical to their prayer and rolled their shoulders.

Rakhadar stepped closer to him and spoke calmly, ignoring the monstrous growls that were getting louder with each moment. ‘I’ll fly you home, but I can’t leave until they are all safe.’

The two female firebloods went in first. Their long slim bodies shot up in a gust of dry wind. Then came the male fireblood with his young wife. She clung to him for support and the first few moments her flight was jittery, she hit the wall twice, but the male steered her forward and soon they were off. Zarbezahl grabbed a yelping Bebukul and they blasted up like a firework missile. Fire-Breasts pressed her husband in a crushing kiss and watched him shoot up. When he was gone, she held out her bottle – only half-empty – to Rakhadar. The look they exchanged was filled with a lot of unsaid words, but after a moment’s hesitation, Rakhadar drank the rest of her oil. She gave him a pat on the shoulder and soared.

Maegorn wet his lips with the dry scratchy tongue, and when Rakhadar turned, carefully put his arms around the blue shoulders and locked his ankles around the naked waist. It was not the most dignified position, but his feet were too caked up to care. He didn’t feel it when Rakhadar lifted off, but as he twisted his neck at the howling yells – so close, so real – he saw them: horns, twice as large; maws, toothy and drooling; some on four legs, some standing straight, and their eyes – hungry, wild, unintelligent. With snarls they prowled towards them, snapping their muzzles wide for a fire spew, and Maegorn shrank for the burn – he knew how it hurt, he remembered how it tortured – but Rakhadar was already up and none of the blasts reached them. As they surged, Maegorn’s head pressed into his shoulders. Rakhadar’s hands tightened under his knees. Maegorn screwed up. The air rushed past so fast, he didn’t have time to cram it into his lungs for a breath, so he held his breath and waited for the tube to finish. Just when he thought he’d burst, the rush was over, the air around him cooled and the flight slowed down. Rakhadar was gliding forward, rather than surging up.

Slowly, the thumping in Maegorn’s ears subsided. Without it, his pain blossomed, inflaming his right side – cheek, shoulder, ribs and thigh – but there came a thrilling understanding: he was flying. He let his head fall back, the stars floating above him, the wind ruffling his hair and caressing his burns; he closed his eyes and smiled.

With a shake, the world around him whirled and tumbled. He clasped at the sweaty skin, at once alert and aware of Rakhadar’s profile, tense and furrowed and very very pale. The muscles that were supporting him under his knees were shaking. Rakhadar was stronger than Coconut-Head, but then again, Maegorn was no Bebukul. Up ahead, he saw the swooshing shadows of the other firebloods and the soaring mass of the castle, with the Zest Bazaar sticking out from its side like a flat tongue out of an open mouth. They were close.

Again, they tumbled and twirled in a downward spiral. Maegorn’s heart throbbed in his throat. Rakhadar grunted, evened out his trajectory and propelled forward so fast, the world swirled and blended in front of Maegorn’s eyes.

They dropped into the hands of the panting firebloods, who stood waiting for them to land. More firebloods poured in, two carried large iron caskets filled with something shimmering that the newlyweds immediately shoved into their mouths, another one lowered in front of Bebukul and – by the Spirits! – licked the boy’s soles. Yet another knelt beside Rakhadar.

‘Tell… Guabohr… three… maybe four portals… inside…’ he said between ragged breaths.

Maegorn clenched his teeth as someone’s hands, soft and gentle, started peeling the burnt leggings off his thigh. Wincing, he met Irillion’s worried look. Ignoring the pain, he found Irillion’s hand and squeezed. When his fingers were squeezed back, he let his head fall back to the floor.

A dark blue shadow moved into his line of vision. Rakhadar.

‘Will you… let me… ease your pain?’

Maegorn gave a curt nod and a moment later something sleek and spongy dragged across his shoulder. He braced for the pain, but the touch brought only relief. Rakhadar worked his tongue in curt efficient movements that were medical, not intimate, tending to his shoulder, ribs, hip and finally cheek. As he withdrew, Maegorn marveled at the soft tingling that radiated from his side.

‘Now cover it with oil,’ Rakhadar instructed Irillion before taking a handful of the shimmering contents from a metal casket and pushing it into his mouth. Maegorn looked harder.

Those were coals.


	9. Chapter 9

‘I mean that’s why flying is such a bother – it takes too much of your fire and you have to eat coals to restore it. Also, we can’t fly too far away from the mountain, as it’s the Inferno Mother that gives us strength.’

Bebukul was sitting at the foot of Maegorn’s bed, a bowl of coals on his lap, chomping and scattering black crumbs over the white sheet.

‘I thought Zarbezahl was supposed to carry you,’ Maegorn said, smiling.

Rakhadar studied that smile from behind the ajar door: it was weak but not pained. He let out a breath – a very quiet one. He was not eavesdropping, simply waiting for a break in their conversation.

Bebukul beamed, showing his blackened teeth.

‘I wriggled out halfway through and even landed by myself, which is the most difficult part.’

With his healthy hand, Maegorn brushed the hair out of his eyes. The hair was unbraided and shimmered softly in the glow of the guiding light. The most delicious honeyed brown had dimmed somewhat though the exposure to the dry heat of the mountain but was no less beautiful.

‘So… aren’t the firebloods upset?’ Maegorn asked. ‘Isn’t it a bad omen or something? Like your Inferno Mother disapproving of your king’s marriage with an elf?’

Bebukul wiped his mouth.

‘Portals have nothing to do with you. They don’t often open so deep inside, but it happens. One portal Mother usually ignores, but the more open at the same time, the more annoyed she gets, and when the Inferno Mother is annoyed, she trembles and heats up. She didn’t mean to burn you, she was just… what was it you said the other day? — pissed.’

‘Where do these portals lead?’

‘The demons’ world. The Inferno Mother’s heat thins the wall between the worlds and creates these holes – portals. Her fire attracts the demons and they come in, crazy and hungry. This is how the first firebloods came here, too. Over the years, we lost some of our fire, but also – our crazy.’

Maegorn looked at him, his eyed narrowing. ‘It is true then,’ he said slowly, ‘what our legends say. Thousands of years ago demons came out of nowhere, usurped the mountain and began incinerating the island? That you were insatiable beasts who couldn’t be reasoned with and our ancestors had to retreat into the jungle to save their homes?’

‘Is it true what our legends say?’ Bebukul asked. ‘That elves used to steal our children and sell them to mainland as pets?’

Maegorn averted his eyes.

‘How many portals opened last night?’ he asked after clearing his throat.

‘Eleven.’ Bebukul crunched a huge piece of coal between his jaws. ‘Uncle sent for reinforcements. Didn’t you see the green lights when you were flying? So many towers were alight, it was like the mountain had dog pox.’

‘The towers are for signaling?’

Bebukul’s ears flapped as he nodded. ‘You can’t predict where a portal might open, so our ancestors built them all over the mountain as a warning system. The guards in a tower light a green fire – we send a regiment to finish the demons.’

Maegorn frowned. ‘How come… How come we know nothing about it – the portals, the towers, the demons?’

‘The formal version is that elves don’t think of us as equals… like, we learn your language and you don’t bother with ours.’ Bebukul wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘You’ve never trusted us enough to listen.’

Maegorn sat silent for a bit. ‘And the informal version?’

Bebukul jerked his shoulders, sending a coal into his mouth. ‘Uncle says it’s because elves are so damn stupid.’

Rakhadar expected Maegorn to get angry, but instead, he laughed.

Bebukul paused the chomping for a moment. ‘Did you see them? The demons?’ At Maegorn’s nod, he sighed. ‘I’ve only seen pictures in history books.’ His face grew sad as he studied his smutty fingers. ‘I can’t believe we were like them once. Animals.’

‘You’re not anymore.’

‘Brother says he was,’ Bebukul whispered. ‘At your wedd—’

Rakhadar stepped inside, pinning Bebukul with a glare. So the nosey little smut had heard his conversation with Jasofrah? He had to make the boy swear on father’s ashes he would keep his mouth shut.

‘How are you faring?’ he asked, turning to Maegorn.

‘Fine.’

It had to be a lie. The numbing effect couldn’t have lasted this long.

Maegorn sat up straighter against the pillows. ‘How are you faring?’ he asked.

Rakhadar was aware of the black circles around his eyes and even blacker teeth: he’d cleaned them thrice this morning to no effect.

‘Fine.’

He placed a bottle of oil on the little table by the bed, turned to Bebukul and jerked his chin at the door. The boy must have been exhausted after the flight, as he left without whining and even closed the door behind him.

‘May I?’ Rakhadar sat on the edge of the bed, gently removing the cotton bandage off Maegorn’s shoulder. He studied the burn, still red but definitely healing, and thanked the Inferno Mother for imbuing her children with a cure for the damage she herself could inflict. Leaning down, he dragged his tongue over the reddened skin. It radiated heat and tasted of oil.

He meant to keep his touches purely medical, he truly did, but now that they were alone, by the time he finished with the shoulder and ribs and moved down to the thigh, his fingers were shaking. He looked up to see if Maegorn had noticed, but the brown eyes were distant and cloudy, as if half asleep.

Pulling down the sheet revealed the dark hip, the protruding thigh bone, the tight outline of the lower stomach muscle. Rakhadar swallowed. Could Maegorn hear his heart knocking against the rib cage? Hands clasped on his lap, he rolled his tongue over the soft flesh, as quickly as he could, screwing his eyes not to stare. When that was done, he straightened. He moved closer to heal Maegorn’s cheek, reaching out to brush away a strand of hair. Unlike on the day of their wedding, Maegorn didn’t flinch. Not even when Rakhadar cupped the healthy cheek for better balance.

Rakhadar swallowed. Again, he closed his eyes, even though it intensified his awareness of Maegorn’s dizzying smell; he ordered his brain to stop thinking and concentrated on the lyrics of ‘Sweet death come for me’ – the most heartbreaking elven song that never failed to stop him from daydreaming. He pulled away and reached out for the oil.

‘I can do it myself,’ Maegorn said, his tone not angry, but leaving no room for discussion. ‘Don’t you need to go eat coals?’

Rakhadar nodded, taking Maegorn’s hand and giving the back of the palm a few quick licks. Before letting it go, he paused over Maegorn's fingertips, which were covered with the old scars left there by the guiding light. His wedding gift.

‘They should have let me heal that,’ he said thickly.

Maegorn shrugged. ‘They thought you were attacking me.’

Rakhadar didn’t blame them. What else could they have thought? What else could be expected of a _demon_? What else could Maegorn expect? The guiding light, the wedding night and now this? He leaped to his feet.

‘Why do I keep hurting you?’ he moaned. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Driving the heels of his palms into his eyes, he breathed through his mouth until he knew his voice wouldn’t tremble. ‘I-I will let you recover...’ he said, moving to the door. ‘Don’t let Bebukul bother you too much, you need rest.’

His hand was on the handle when Maegorn called him and he turned.

‘I have never flown before,’ Maegorn said, his eyes dark and pensive.

Closing the door, Rakhadar pressed his back to the wall and slid to the floor. His fingers touched something warm – Bebukul’s bowl of coals. Had he forgotten it? Or left it on purpose? Thankful either way, Rakhadar grabbed a handful.

Rubbing his eyes, Rakhadar stifled a yawn. Three hours before dawn. Three smutty hours.

He would have gladly slept until Zarbezahl’s assistant’s third knock on his door, but Bebukul’s invitation to see the practice of the Young Fire regiment had been so awkwardly timid, it had caught him unawares. More importantly, the invitation had Maegorn’s name written all over it, and that was something Rakhadar could never say no to. That was why now, washed up and dressed, he was walking across the Zest Bazaar, towards the group of chattering firelings who hushed and bowed at his approach and lined up next to their elven teacher.

‘Thank you for coming, Your Blaze,’ Maegorn said with a nod.

For the hundredth time, Rakhadar swallowed the please-call-me-Rakhadar and replied with a quiet, ‘Maegorn.’

Bebukul, face the most serious he’d ever seen, stepped forward.

‘Young Fire regiment… on posi-tions.’

Without a single unnecessary sound or movement, the firelings – seven boys and eight girls – stood in a perfect line: shoulders back, chests forward, hands pressed to the hilts of their practice double swords. Double swords. Not sabers or scythes. The weapons – carved from ironwood and obviously self-made – were lovingly decorated to each youngster’s preference.

‘At arms.’

The line made a step forward and unsheathed the swords.

‘Salute.’

The swords flew up, crossed in front of their faces.

‘At ease.’

Bebukul turned to him, the line of his mouth slightly trembling. ‘We start with a warm-up and then have sparring sessions till there are two champions, who then lead a team-on-team fight against each other. The captain of the winning team becomes the regiment’s commander for the next day’s session.’

The boy paused, waiting for his reply. They all were. Rakhadar would have laughed, had their faces not been so honestly relentlessly serious.

So he said gravely, ‘I see.’

Their warm-up was a show-off of their swordsmanship: throwing and catching the blades, twirling and lunging. Their movements were smooth, with only a few slips or missteps. Again and again, Rakhadar forced his eyes towards the training firelings, away from their teacher, who stood, face expressions minimal – a marginal narrowing of eyes at a mistake or a slightly raised chin at a particularly good move. Maegorn was so close that soft gusts of wind would now and then brush the dark hair against Rakhadar’s shoulder. Rakhadar shivered at each caress but didn’t dare to move away.

Waking at a short command, he focused on the fighters – it was Bebukul’s turn and his partner was Razzogul, Apka’s youngest son, a boy of much larger built and statue. Bebukul didn’t look concerned, just rolled his swords in quick sharp arches. The first time Bebukul had ever held a weapon, he had tripped and stepped on his own scythe, cut his toe in half and spent the rest of the month limping, and – to his utter delight – free of fighting lessons. Since then Rakhadar had made a few attempts to interest him in martial lore, but as the imbalanced horns impeded quick learning, after the first unsuccessful attempts Bebukul cried, then he got angry, and at last made a point of sabotaging his every class by feigning illness, dropping on his stomach in childish tantrums or pranking his teachers till they refused to have any dealings with this demonic waste of horns. Those memories made the change in Bebukul even more dramatic. Standing against his partner, he was in a bit of a crouch, his only horn forward, the muscles of his naked upper body tense and rigid.

At Kut’ha’s command, the boys jumped, weapons meeting in the air with a dull clank, and leaped apart, landing softly and straightening.

Oh, those jumps. The infamous elven tactic. Guabohr’s fighting lessons had always started with the warnings along the lines of ‘you would aim at an ash-tosser, swing your saber – but the pointy-ears would be already in the air, crazy grasshopper style, landing behind your back and slashing you open from waist up’.

Maegorn’s jumps had been flaming. A deadly spark in the air. A lightning bolt. Rakhadar wished he could see it again.

The boys’ jumps were neither fluid nor springy enough to be truly elven, but their effort was impressive.

After a few sidesteps, they jumped at each other again, and then again, each time meeting halfway and joining their swords in a rehearsed sequence of blows – clear, exact, seamless. A highly unusual fireblood fight it was, and not just due to the elven weapons or jumping: apart from heavy footsteps and curt breaths, they moved in silence – no vicious growls, no taunts or curses; Bebukul’s actions were smooth, the hilts of his swords trembling in his hands barely visibly, and his eyes – the same deep demonic red as Rakhadar’s – regarded his opponent with the calm calculation only seen in elves’.

How many fireblood parents knew about these morning practices? How many knew exactly what their children were being taught? How many approved?

Rakhadar rubbed the skin around his elbows.

Circling each other in an oblique trajectory, the boys whirled their swords and made false lunges to provoke each other. A demon would have fallen for the trap – any fireblood he knew would have – _he_ would have – but these two kept their cool. How could Bebukul – the one with the shortest temper, the one who, as a child, peed himself waiting for the drummers’ performance, and, growing up, upturned a table at Kut’ha because he didn’t like the way she had tied his celebratory band – stay unwavering under such pressure? Rakhadar knew the answer, of course. It was standing to his right, an unmovable sentinel statue, strong and stoic, following the fighters with seeming indifference, but holding breath ever so slightly at the boys’ each lunge.

Maegorn looked proud. He had every right to be. Rakhadar was impressed with his brother. Impressed and… there was something else that he couldn’t quite name.

He squared his shoulders. ‘He tends to leave his left flank open.’

For some time, Maegorn stood silent.

‘If I may suggest, your Blaze,’ he said at last, eyes following the fight, ‘when your brother comes to you for feedback, that you give him praise rather than criticism.’

Rakhadar frowned. What he said was not meant as faultfinding, rather, a suggestion for further improvement. Why wouldn’t Bebukul appreciate it? After all, that’s how mother reacted when Rakhadar was learning to fight, and that’s what pushed him to always strive for perfection.

But then again, Rakhadar wasn’t his mother, was he?

Vigorous clanking drew his eyes to the battle: the firelings collided in a streak of exhaustingly swift blows that left them panting and sweaty. Just as they leapt apart for a break, Bebukul made a distracting lunge to the side, and the moment Razzogul whirled towards it, he slashed the boy’s exposed stomach. Were those real swords, Apka’s son would have been no more.

With a huff of disappointment, Razzogul lowered his weapons and bowed to the victor. Instead of gloating, Bebukul returned the gesture and, having sheathed their swords, they touched horns. Their exchange was followed by appreciative howling from the other members of the Young Fire regiment.

‘Now it is the squad on squad flight,’ Bebukul said, approaching. ‘As today’s champions, Kut’ha and I are the leaders.’ He put on a top that had the Inferno Mother’s eye drawn on the front in white paint. So did Kut’ha. ‘Each team gets three guiding lights. This is my ground and our stones are over there,’ he swiped his hand to the left and Rakhadar indeed saw three crystal boxes scattered at some distance from each other, ‘and over there is Kut’ha’s,’ – a swipe to the right. The two halves of the square were separated by a thin yellow line drawn across the stones. ‘The fight ends when a squad’s three stones have been captured by the opponent and delivered to the enemy ground. If soldiers are struck, they are out. My squad is firebloods one to five, hers – six to ten.’

Rakhadar was about to ask how he was supposed to count them when from a heap on the ground, the firelings picked up black tops, each sporting a large number painted with white dye on the front and the back.

The groups hurdled on their respective grounds, whispering and throwing quick glances at the enemy’s guiding lights. At Maegorn’s first elaborate whistle – the skin-crawling _prepare-to-kill-demons_ elven whistle – they stood in a straight line opposite each other, and at the second whistle, came into motion.

‘Squad, advance…’ Bebukul barked, withdrawing towards his guiding lights, ‘…halt!’

Numbers One to Five stalled at the border of his ground, alert and ready. At the same time, Kut’ha left her Ten behind to guard the boxes and lead the rest of her soldiers to attack.

‘Squad, as you were,’ Bebukul said in a tight voice, watching Six to Nine march in a beak-shaped line headed by their leader, swords crossed at the chests. ‘As you were.’

Halfway to the border, Kut’ha’s squad sped up to a run.

‘Attack,’ she yelled, and they bolted forward.

Bebukul’s mouth twitched, but he kept silent – testing them? Waiting for something? Being indecisive? Rakhadar’s eyes flashed between his brother and the approaching opponents: why wasn’t he ordering _anything_?

As the enemy was steps away, Bebukul gave a quick order, ‘Two.’

Two was Razzogul, and he took off in a whirl of the skirt, rounding the enemy’s flank before any of them could break their charge to intercept. In a flash, he crossed the border, Kut’ha’s Ten meeting him with a deadly blow, but by the time the sword hit his jugular, Razzogul had already hurled the guiding light to his ground. The crystal box flashed in the morning haze, made a beautiful curve in the air, crossing the square, and hit the ground with a clank. Bebukul’s trick lost him a soldier but earned him a point.

When Rakhadar turned to the border, the clash between the teams was in full swing: One with Seven, Three against Nine and Six, Four dancing around Eight, Five being butchered by Kut’ha. Without taking part in the fight, Bebukul watched his soldiers, slipping in strategic advice, ‘Three, to your left’ or ‘One, behind you’ and, surprisingly, they were not distracted, but able to use his warnings to their advantage. At some point, Kut’ha’s Eight broke through and dashed for the closest box, but Bebukul spotted this from his vantage point and easily struck her. She limped away from the fight and sat, panting, next to Razzogul. As Bebukul was getting back to his place, he stared, stunned, at Ten, who’d left Kut’ha guarding point and had crouched along the side of the square, and was now at Bebukul’s ground, a step away from a box. Bebukul lunged towards him, but it was too late – the box was already in the air, landing into Kut’ha’s outstretched hands. She sent it forward – clank!

One-one.

Bebukul clashed with Ten and downed him with a revengeful grunt.

With Kut’ha engaged and no one to guard the post, Four took off for her ground. At Kut’ha’s bark, Nine followed her. Nine was faster and already reached out a hand for a grab, but tripped on a pothole and fell, giving Four enough time to send the box across the border. As Four was running back, Nine was already on his feet, attacking. Four dodged, threw her own weapon forward, and they hit each other simultaneously, both falling on their bums and hissing at the pain.

Rakhadar turned to his brother’s ground quickly enough to see one of Bebukul’s boxes flying across the border. He wasn’t sure who had sent it, but the result was nail-biting.

Two-two.

One and Seven clashed in a deadly battle over Bebukul’s last box. One’s sword was lowering on Seven’s back, so instead of picking the guiding light, the boy kicked it in the direction of the border and it landed right on the yellow line. Both Bebukul and Kut’ha leaped towards it. Bebukul lunged down, but Kut’ha chugged her swords and locked an arm around his waist, dragging him away. They struggled. Bebukul tried to throw Kut’ha off, but she was strong, her hands squishing him like a jakothar’s jaws. Almost incapacitated, Bebukul was reaching down, grabbing at the air, kicking and buckling, and at one point his foot threw forward, accidentally grazing the box. It moved an inch — Rakhadar held his breath – towards Kut’ha’s ground.

She dropped Bebukul, lifting her hands in the air, and her soldiers – fallen and still in the game – howled. Basking in their appreciation, she did a celebratory dance, branded her horns and finally turned to her defeated opponent, who sat hunched and panting on the ground. Dirty, sweaty and scratched, Bebukul looked up at Kut’ha... and smiled.

‘Congratulations, commander.’

She helped him up and they bowed.

Rakhadar’s jaw dropped. Bebukul as a gracious victor was something he could believe, but accepting a loss with such dignity? Causing his own downfall and not blaming everyone around?

Still not sure what to think, he watched the excitedly chattering firelings who, with a bow to him and a nod to Maegorn, left the grounds to wash before breakfast. All except Bebukul.

‘How did you like our practice?’ The boy stood straight in front of him, hands clasped behind his back.

Rakhadar had already bitten back the urge to point out the mistakes he’d noted during the fight, but giving praise was still a struggle. Was this how Maegorn had felt, kneeling under the Inferno Mother’s glance, battling himself to reject his Spirits? Knowing what he must say and yet unable to unclench his teeth? Rakhadar had no qualms encouraging his soldiers and courtiers, but Bebukul… the boy had never given him a reason for praise – not a skill or an achievement, not even an effort; he was purposely asking for criticism, which, due to practice, Rakhadar had become a master of. So now he stood, shifting on his heels and clearing his throat.

Oh, for the sake of the Inferno Mother, he was saying something nice to his brother, not rejecting his faith. If Maegorn had coped, so would he.

‘You fight… like a true fireblood,’ he said.

Bebukul’s cheeks flashed so pale, they matched the white-painted eye on his chest.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I-I leave my left flank open, and I made a mistake abandoning my vantage point, but… I-I’m working on it.’

Rakhadar nodded. The boy shuffled his feet.

‘Brother, if I may…’

The glance Bebukul threw at Maegorn, who stood at their side, pointedly uninterested in the conversation, was so fleeting, Rakhadar wouldn’t have noticed, had he not been waiting for it. Of course this invitation was more than a sudden bout of brotherly love. Of course. Rakhadar had fallen for the trick before, but he was a quick learner. He had been expecting a payback and now braced for it.

‘As you see, my fighting has improved. I’m stronger and have much more endurance. And if you ask Master Apka, she will tell you that I’m making progress with riding, too.’ Bebukul paused to take a breath. ‘So, with all this in mind, would you consider… taking me to the next demon raid?’

Rakhadar stared. Was this a joke? Bebukul’s face was serious.

He shook his head, ‘No,’ bracing for whining. It always gave him the fiercest headaches.

‘Brother, I know I still have a lot to learn and practice, but I believe it could be good motivation for me.’ Bebukul’s voice was unnervingly calm and even, and somehow it fired up Rakhadar even harder.

‘No.’

‘Would you tell me why?’

‘Because you’re a child,’ he said darkly. ‘Not even full-flared.’ 

‘You were three years younger when you closed your first portal.’

Rakhadar gave a quiet growl. When _he_ was a child, the time was different. They were at war. Also, with sister alive, he was… disposable.

Bebukul stepped closer. ‘Brother, I know you worry about me. You don’t want me to get hurt, I understand. But I’m not asking to fight. All I want is to go there and see them with my own eyes, see the threat – from a distance, a cover. I need to witness you in action, learn from you. If I want to be chosen as your heir, I must know what’s coming.’

The words left a hollow ringing in Rakhadar’s head, even though they were his own, from the times when he had been trying to convince Bebukul to try harder.

A seagull gave a morning screech high above their heads, and he looked up, following its effortless glide across the sky. The blues and creamy yellows painted the horizon and the sunlight, not burning yet, but nicely warm, was creeping over the mountain in a lazy tidal wave. He imagined it should turn Maegorn’s hair into a crown of dark gold, but he didn’t have the courage to look. 

‘It will only be once,’ he said, ‘and you are not to question my orders, not to distract me, and at no time are you to show your nose from behind your jakothar, understood?’

With a stifled yelp, Bebukul skipped from foot to foot.

‘Understood.’ Throwing a giddy glance at Maegorn he took off before Rakhadar could change his mind.

It was time for breakfast, so Rakhadar made his way towards the castle. To his surprise, Maegorn fell into step beside him.

‘You’ve made your brother very happy, your Blaze,’ he said after they’d walked in silence.

‘You’ve trained him well.’

‘Bebukul has potential. He needed advice on how to compensate for his lack of balance. And some disciplining, of course.’

Rakhadar snorted. ‘That he did.’ His sandals were diving into shiny black pebbles as he stepped along the wide path. ‘But I didn’t mean his fighting skills. This was your training, that whole speech back there?’

‘I advised on the line of arguments, yes.’

‘Well now advise me, general, what do I do if he gets injured?’

‘You hug him and—’

‘We don’t hug.’

‘—you hug him and you tell him you are proud of him.’

‘But—’

‘His injury would teach him more about safety and self-preservation than your roars ever would. All he would need is to know that you love and support him, especially in his failures.’

They walked some more.

‘I must thank you,’ Rakhadar said.

‘For what?’ Maegorn turned and here it was – the crown of dark sparkles adorning his long proud face. Now Rakhadar couldn’t look away.

‘That was the most civil conversation my brother and I had since… well, since a very long time. No whining, no yelling, no finger-crossing. He was… different, serious. And not just today: I know his improved council attendance is also your doing. He looks up to you, and your raised eyebrow has an effect mine never did. How… do you do this?’

Maegorn gave a small shrug. ‘I listen to what he has to say and treat his opinions with respect. I offer him praise and encourage him when he fails.’

‘Do you hug him, too?’

‘No, this is his family’s charge.’

_Oh, but you are, you are his family now. He is your brother now, too, remember?_ Rakhadar’s breath caught and he clasped his hands behind his back tighter.

Still walking, Maegorn picked up a black pebble and was tossing it in the air, his wrist moving in smooth fluid motions, long fingers with funny short nails flexing around the stone, as if in a caress.

‘Bebukul might look up to me, but you are his hero. Most of all he needs your approval.’

‘He did impress me today.’ Scratching the skin above his elbow, Rakhadar thought back at the fight and the unexpected poise with which Bebukul had taken the failure—

He stopped in his tracks and waited for Maegorn to turn.

‘Was it hard, to convince him to lose?’ he asked, folding his arms on his chest.

Maegorn cocked his head, a smile tugging his beautiful mouth to the side. ‘It took some time, but at last he agreed that that would impress you more than his victories.’

‘In the name of the Inferno Mother,’ – a wiping gesture – ‘how did you do _that_?’

‘I said that sometimes one needed to lose a fight to win a battle and… told him of Towers 26 and 27.’

Rakhadar met the proud glance with a dark smile: this was a piece of history they shared. Maegorn had let him seize the rickety Tower 25, and while Rakhadar was trying to restore it, forced Tower 26, with all the fireblood rations and oil supplies, built a wall around it and held for a month against Rakhadar’s attacks, until U’tron arrived with reinforcements, making the fireblood army flee.

Rakhadar sighed almost wistfully. ‘It was a good time, Maegorn Stone-Wall.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Maegorn’s glance swept towards the horizon. ‘But I don’t think I go by that tag anymore.’

This hadn’t occurred to Rakhadar – of course Maegorn’s tag had to have been changed after such a wedding – and his interest was piqued.

‘What have they tagged you?’

‘I don’t know, but nothing heroic, I’m afraid.’

Rakhadar’s smile faded. ‘Why not?’

Dropping the pebble under his feet, Maegorn said bitterly, ‘What would you have tagged me after…’ he made a vague gesture at the mountain, the castle, _at Rakhadar_ , ‘this?’

Rakhadar wasn’t used to tagging everyone around him, so nothing came to his mind, but one thing he knew for certain. ‘Nothing bad.’ He frowned. ‘What would they have tagged princess Le’unn if I’d married her?’

A mirthless chuckle. ‘Blessed-Saviour or Elven-Martyr or some such.’

‘Why is it different with you?’

Maegorn narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t smiling anymore, not even bitterly. ‘Oh, come on, like you don’t know why they think you did this.’ Turning towards the castle gates, he walked forward.

Rakhadar stared after him. He _didn’t_ know.

And then – _‘_ _The pointy-ears think you are doing this to humiliate him, to take revenge…’_ Guabohr had always thought lowly of elves, but could he have been right?

Rakhadar bolted forward, blocking the path.

‘Maegorn, have I…’ he paused, choosing the words, ‘belittled you in elves’ eyes?’

Maegorn stood rod-straight, glance fixed on the ground, and when Rakhadar tried to meet his eyes, turned away.

A chilly thought pierced Rakhadar. ‘Have I… belittled you in your own eyes?’

Sunlight played on Maegorn’s tightly clasped jaw.

‘Let me pass,’ he said.

Rakhadar stepped out of the way. So this was a wound, raw and bleeding, and he didn’t even know? What a thick-skinned ash-tosser.

‘Maegorn,’ he called softy, ‘would _you_ want to go on a demon raid?’

A whirl of braided hair and a deadly flash of brown eyes told him everything he needed to know.

Rakhadar smiled. ‘You’ll need to learn to ride a jakothar.’


	10. Chapter 10

Getting into a week-old tunic was not hard; it was to go unwashed for a week that was giving Maegorn the trouble. But apparently, one couldn’t smell of soap on their first meeting with a jakothar, and if in order to be in battle again he needed to get filthy, he was ready to sleep in a pigsty. Or hug Guabohr. And yet, entering the kennels, he staggered at the rank welcome of a hundred damp dog pelts. He paused, steadying his breakfast, then walked on, guided by the cacophonous howling, barking and whimpering.

Rakhadar was already inside, a grey-haired fireblood talking to him in rapid Firetongue, and the female’s stench, leather dress and scarred skin told Maegorn it was Apka, Chief of the Kennels and master tamer.

‘Speak Elvish, Apka,’ Rakhadar said without ever looking his way. Could he smell Maegorn’s approach?

‘Two more cubs were adopted yesterday, your Blaze, only one is left,’ she pointed ahead, to a small pen where, under an awning, lay a shadow. It was panting and wagging the stump of its tail.

Nodding at Maegorn in a greeting, Rakhadar neared the fence. Maegorn came closer and together they watched the cub lift its head at the attention, thump its mangled appendage harder and finally lumber forward into the sun. Some cub it was. The alien cross between a dog and a goat was larger than any canine pup he’d seen on mainland, its legs as thick as Maegorn’s arms, and its head the size of a good pumpkin. And yet, it was indeed a puppy: black eyes large and trusting, movements awkward and stumbling, the expression of the fluffy maw so innocent, Maegorn stuck his hand out before his brain could stop him. A damp leather nose poked into his palm, sniffing and enticing a caress, and as Maegorn was running his fingers along the soft shiny fur, another hand – dark blue and covered by a black sleeve – joined him, scratching around the cub’s nascent horns. Maegorn smiled at the puppy’s blissful expression – maw open in a grin, tongue rolling over the rows of already deadly teeth.

‘Why wasn’t it taken?’ he asked.

‘Without the tail, it will be a bother training him for battle.’

‘What’s to happen to it?’

‘Firelings can come play with him.’ Rakhadar dropped his glance. ‘At least for now.’ He opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it, as if deciding against it.

Eyes clueless but smart, the puppy gave a high-pitched bark.

‘Does it have a name?’ Maegorn asked.

Rakhadar turned to Apka.

‘Shuck-chuh,’ she supplied.

Maegorn moved his fingers lower, scratching the soft spot under the cub’s jaw and it lifted its head, giving better access.

‘Does it mean anything?’

Rakhadar frowned for a moment. His hand, black tips of claws protruding, ruffled the furry forehead. ‘It is… umm… the sound the flint makes as it strikes against the steel to make fire.’ He made a sliding gesture with one hand against the other, ‘Shuck,’ and splayed his fingers showing a flame, ‘chuh.’

Maegorn nodded. ‘Shuckcha.’

‘No.’ Rakhadar smiled and repeated the flint-and-spark gesture, ‘Shuck-chuh.’

Unable to hear much difference, Maegorn copied the intonation. ‘Shuck-cha.’

‘Better.’

As always, Rakhadar’s eyes lingered on him before looking away.

‘What’s the name of my jakothar?’ Maegorn asked.

‘Bakoo-ra. It’s _the light of a thousand stars_.’

‘This is surprisingly romantic.’

‘Her previous owner was a star-reader,’ Rakhadar said. ‘An astronomer. Zarbezahl’s oldest son.’

‘What happened to him?’ Maegorn asked. He already knew that the Inferno Mother, as if sensing the end of the war, had been sending fewer and fewer cubs, forcing the firebloods to re-adopt rider-less jakothar. The loss of the previous owner happened mostly for one reason.

‘Dead.’ Rakhadar rumpled the pup’s pelt and then smoothed it. ‘I’ll ready your jakothar, you can go to the arena.’ He pointed to a large sandy area behind the pens and, with a final caress of the cub’s head, slid further along the fence.

On his way to the arena, Maegorn paused at the loud angry barking that was coming from no jakothar. He moved towards the noise and stopped short. Towering over Rakhadar, Guabohr was barking at the top of his lungs in Firetongue, bits of saliva bouncing off his lips. Rakhadar stood straight under the assault and, noticing Maegorn, threw his usual, ‘Speak Elvish, uncle.’ Guabohr flinched, his mouth working silently at the order. After a quick glare at Maegorn, he leaned forward.

‘You stupid,’ he bellowed, ignoring Rakhadar’s flaring nostrils. ‘He bring us trouble, he treat you like ash, he not want be like we, dress like we – and now you give to him Urtagu’s jakothar? Zarbezahl not deserve this.’

Maegorn took a step back and stumbled against the fence. When Rakhadar was talking about a riderless jakothar, he forgot to mention that the one Maegorn was adopting used to belong to Urtagu. Rakhadar’s best friend. The best friend Maegorn had killed. So… Urtagu was Zarbezahl’s son? Kut’ha’s older brother? None of them had ever brought it up. They had never blamed him, never given him the deserved look of hatred. Maegorn knew what loss was, what hatred was – when Grundfjorn had killed his father he had prayed that the Spirits’ wrath should strike her – but losing a son… Maegorn’s gut chilled and he slid to the ground. He barely registered Rakhadar’s cold voice snapping, ‘Enough, uncle, go eat salt.’ After more huffing and stomping, the kennels grew quiet.

Rakhadar lowered beside him.

‘Don’t mind uncle,’ he said. ‘His stubbornness blinds him. He fears change, so he sticks his horns into the past: had it been for him, we’d still be at war. I had to wait for someone to hurt him hard enough to send him to the healers – the moment he was unconscious, I had the rest of my council sign the treaty. So, in a way, it’s all thanks to U’tron.’

Maegorn felt the probing look and turned away, fidgeting with the sleeve of his week-old shirt.

‘The fact that he is loyal isn’t helping either,’ Rakhadar continued. ‘He truly believes that the Inferno Mother,’ – a wiping gesture – ‘got angry at our union and that her increased rumbling and smoking means disapproval. But I… honestly, I think… she is just there, minding her own business, not bothering with our petty lives.’

Maegorn dropped his sleeve.

‘I feel the same way,’ he said, turning. Rakhadar eyed him, careful and attentive, so he said, ‘As elflings, we are taught that the Spirits are watching us from the stars, blessing or judging, but… I don’t think they are. The stars are there for themselves and least of all they care about our doings.’

Their gazes met. Maegorn took a deep breath.

‘Rakhadar.’ He had never called Rakhadar by his name, but now it seemed right. ‘I’m sorry about Urtagu.’

The red eyes looked at him with the expression he couldn’t quite identify.

‘I know.’ Rakhadar stood and held out a hand. ‘Are you ready to become a rider?’

Maegorn grabbed the offered hand. It was warm and smooth. ‘What is the name of your jakothar?’ he asked, rising.

Blue cheeks paled as Rakhadar babbled something inaudible. He attempted to leave but froze when Maegorn touched his forearm.

‘What was it?’

‘A… Aire.’

‘Aire? The-boy-who-lived-on-a-star?’ The hero of a children’s song, Aire was the most beloved character of any elfling. But a fireblood’s?

Rakhadar crossed his hands on his chest. ‘Do you want to ride or not?’

Biting down his questions, Maegorn nodded, and they moved to the arena.

Meeting an adult jakothar outside of battle, Maegorn fought the urge to flinch, as the black eyes, the same level as his, studied him from under the bushy brows. It was clear where her previous owner was coming from when naming her – the fur was mostly black, with a few patches of white – but the white was dirty and the black was mangled, so calling it a starry night was a stretch.

As instructed, he stood calm and unwavering, hands at his sides, chin tilted up. Guided by Rakhadar, the beast approached, hooved legs thumping against the sandy ground, and paused a few steps away, stretching her snout to sniff. She gave a low growl, baring her long yellowish fangs. Then she went silent, crouched down and the next moment her maw was closing on Maegorn’s throat. It was scarier than he’d ever imagined.

‘Don’t move, just don’t move,’ Rakhadar warned, voice trembling just a bit.

Fangs piercing his skin and foul breath prickling his eyes, Maegorn went rigid. His body threatened to topple under the weight of the front legs bearing into his chest, but he drove his feet into the ground hard enough to burst his boots. After a few agonizing seconds, the jakothar unclasped her teeth and stepped down, snarling and shaking her head, sputtering Maegorn with drool, until he held his hand forward, strictly saying, ‘Bakoo-ra, haa’. Her ears pricked up and she whimpered, stilling, beady eyes twinkling through the tufts of glistening fur. Cautiously, Maegorn lowered his palm on her nape and raked his fingers down all the way to the withers. She let him.

‘Good girl,’ he whispered, driving his short nails into her pelt. She snorted in pleasure, even though he had no claws to scratch her hard enough. Next time he would bring a comb.

A visible tremor rippled through her body, from the head to the tip of the tail. With a deafening howl, she reared on her hind legs and scampered away, prowling around the arena in a cloud of sand.

‘Good,’ Rakhadar said, stepping closer. ‘She doesn’t mind you now.’

Maegorn rubbed his bruised neck. ‘You mean she doesn’t mind eating me.’

‘If she wanted to kill you, she already would have.’

Maegorn had no doubt.

After a few flashy lapses, Bakoo-ra bounded up to him again, this time, apparently, to lick him to death.

‘Seems she is just as hungry for action,’ he heard Rakhadar’s amused voice through the lapping of the spongy tongue over his ears.

‘Bakoo-ra, haa,’ he begged, and she calmed, panting into his face and waiting for a command. Wiping his cheeks with a sleeve, he sized up the enormous furry shape.

‘Have you ever ridden anything?’ Rakhadar asked.

‘A horse, when on mainland.’

‘Well, mounting is the same, but steering differs.’

Rakhadar threw his head up in a loud howl that was immediately answered. In an eager trot, another shadow emerged from the kennels – Aire, a true monster, all black save for three reddish stripes along the back. Giving his rider a welcoming lick, the jakothar focused his attention on Bakoo-ra: they met like old friends, rubbing noses and playfully biting and each other’s crests.

Rakhadar ran his claws along his jakothar’s back. ‘Remember, you don’t steer with your hands, but with your… um… hips.’

‘Hips?’

Hooking his claws into the beast’s furry withers, Rakhadar pulled himself up. ‘Jakothar don’t know Elvish, so you’ll have to say your commands in Firetongue. We’ll do just two for today: _watta-haa_ for _go_ and _ash-haa_ for _stop_.’ He waited for Maegorn to repeat the commands, then nodded. ‘ _Watta-haa_ ,’ he said, and Aire moved. ‘Now watch as I steer him around.’

They made a small circle around Maegorn, moving softly and almost gracefully.

‘You see?’

Maegorn focused on Rakhadar’s hips covered by the wide gilded belt. There was not much movement.

‘You’re not doing anything,’ he said, frowning.

‘ _Ash-haa_ ,’ Rakhadar said, stopping the beast. ‘Perhaps this way you’ll see better.’ He fumbled with the belt’s buckles and chucked the strip of gilded leather aside. ‘ _Watta-haa_.’

Now Maegorn saw it. The minimal movement of the blue hips, so smooth and… seductive. Nothing hid Rakhadar’s body now, from chest down it was all exposed – the muscled stomach, the dip of the navel, the chiseled hip bones – all the way down to the line of the skirt. A very low line. So low, Maegorn could see the quirks of indigo veins crawling up from Rakhadar’s groin.

Maegorn's throat went dry.

If he ever had doubts that Rakhadar desired him, they dispersed the morning the fireblood was licking away his burns. He saw those hooded eyes, those trembling fingers, those awkward attempts to cover up the want. But the fact that he himself was now unable to take his eyes away from the swaying hips was… unnerving.

‘You see?’ Rakhadar pushed his hips forward and to the side with knee-buckling grace, and all Maegorn could think of was how incredible this skill should be in bed. ‘Did you see that?’

Maegorn let out a careful breath. ‘I did,’ he said tightly.

‘ _Ash-haa_.’ Rakhadar jumped off, the skirt clouding up around his thighs.

‘Why the skirt?’ Maegorn asked to distract himself.

It took Rakhadar a moment to understand what he’d meant. ‘The skirt is the symbol of the fire that the Inferno Mother blesses us with,’ he said with the swiping gesture, ‘and our tribute to her.’

‘But you’re a people of riders. Wouldn’t leggings be more convenient?’

Rakhadar shrugged. ‘That’s why the skirt is wide.’ He smoothed down the shiny fabric. ‘It allows for a lot of movement, it’s not as hot, there’s a million pockets. But truth be told, it can be a nuisance. Once I got tangled in front of the whole regiment and my dismounting was quite… undignified.’

Maegorn laughed. ‘This is what I’m telling Guabohr next time he yells at me for not dressing like a fireblood.’

Instead of amused, Rakhadar’s expression grew worried. ‘Does he bother you? Just let me know and I’ll—’

‘I can handle him,’ Maegorn said curtly. He didn’t need a bodyguard.

‘I didn’t mean—’ Rakhadar paused. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just… You’re part of the family now; uncle must know better than intimidate you.’

‘I’m not intimidated by him, trust me. You can’t see someone pick their nose in front of you and still be intimidated.’ Maegorn smiled at Rakhadar’s apologetic wincing. ‘It’s not only him though – even Bebukul nags me to try the skirt. Why is this such an issue?’

Rakhadar threw his hands in the air. ‘You’re telling me! I get a lecture from Zarbezahl every council meeting on why I don’t make you dress like us.’

Maegorn searched to meet his eyes. ‘Why don’t you?’

Rakhadar’s ears twitched as he was mindlessly clawing loose hairs out of Aire’s withers and letting them swirl to the sandy floor. ‘I love you in elven clothes—’ His eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed white. ‘I-I mean, I love the way you look in elven clothes— not love, I mean…’ He took a deep breath and finished quickly, ‘You should wear whatever you’re comfortable in.’

Maegorn suppressed a smile. ‘Thank you.’

Bakoo-ra yawned and dug a hoof into the sand, showing she’d had enough of their chatter. Copying Rakhadar’s example, Maegorn grasped her withers and pulled himself up. Without much effort he was on the beast’s back.

Rakhadar held the jakothar by the ear. ‘Whatever you do, do not kick your heels into her sides.’

‘Oh,’ Maegorn said, as it was exactly what he was about to do.

‘It tickles, so she’ll faint – fall to the ground and throw you off.’

‘Fine, no kicking.’ Maegorn got a good grip on the withers. ‘ _Watta-haa_.’

He nudged his hips forward and Bakoo-ra twisted her head back with a snap.

‘Too rough,’ Rakhadar noted. ‘Try it in a gentler way.’

He did. Now Bakoo-ra didn’t move at all.

‘May I help?’ Rakhadar asked and Maegorn nodded.

Warm tingling radiated where wide palms touched his sides. Maegorn thanked the Spirits his tunic was long enough that it wasn’t bare skin, but he still felt every freaking finger. Rakhadar urged him to roll his hips to the side with a soft ‘ _Watta-haa’_ , and Bakoo-ra listened. The warm fingers withdrew, letting Maegorn try it out on his own.

‘No kicking, remember?’

After a few unsuccessful attempts, it worked. Maegorn experimented steering in different directions, and his right turns worked better than the left ones. Compared to a horse, the ride was jittery and rough, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Half a lapse around the arena later, he grew extremely proud of himself.

‘Hmph,’ he smirked, ‘it’s not as hard as I expect—’

That was when he kicked his heels into the furry sides. Bakoo-ra buckled and dropped belly up to the ground, throwing him against the fence. He saw stars.

Sitting up with a grunt, he rubbed the back of his head. A horned shadow blocked the sun.

‘That was a good effort,’ Rakhadar said, grinning. ‘Do you need a hug?’

After a month he was a decent rider: he could steer, reverse, leap; he was having troubles climbing uphill and scaling rocks, but it took firelings years to learn, so he gave himself one more month to become a master.

At the end of another week he woke in the middle of the night at the shudder and low grumbling coming from the direction of the mountain. He had stayed up late the previous night, adding an entry on fireblood scythes into his journal, so he was still rubbing his eyes when an excited and disheveled Bebukul burst the door open.

‘It’s here,’ he yapped, red eyes shining like two disturbed guiding lights. ‘Must be a big one.’

Heart dancing in his chest, Maegorn splashed water in his face, worked his hair into a single braid and jumped into his light armor.

By the time he reached the kennels, a large group of fireblood soldiers had already led their jakothar out into the yard. The sight of Rakhadar, dressed in his steel vest, the saber strapped to his belt and the scythe behind his back, evoked old uneasiness. But… they were not enemies anymore, they were going to fight side by side, not against each other. _You’re part of the family now…_ The thought sent the blood pumping in Maegorn’s veins.

‘Everyone, we speak Elvish on this raid,’ Rakhadar said in a tone that left no room for discussion.

No one dared dispute, but quite a few displeased looks were thrown Maegorn’s way.

Guabohr growled and spat.

Some family.

Paying them no heed, Maegorn entered the kennels. However much he hurried, he took a moment for his usual detour to Shuck-chuh’s pen. The cub acknowledged him with high-pitched woofs and wild thumping of the stumpy tail, begging for the usual biscuit and caress, and Maegorn obliged both.

Bakoo-ra was waiting for him, front legs on the fence, and she grumbled, chiding him for tardiness. She could have easily jumped over but was trained to wait for permission.

‘Sorry, girl,’ he said, opening the door and caressing her snout as she poked it into his hair. ‘Today is a big day for both of us. Let’s show these firebloods what we’re made of.’

He poured a salt solution over her pelt for better fire-resilience and moved outside. He was intercepted by a large dark shape that gave him an assessing look. Fire-Brea— Jasofrah was holding out a dark piece of cloth that she threw at him the way she would toss a bone to ward off an annoying cub. Maegorn studied the fabric, which unfolded in a thick prickly veil: a fireproof cloak, the same as the one wrapped around her own shoulders. 

‘Their fire is stronger than ours,’ she said. ‘If they spew on us, we scar. If they spew on you, you’re ash. Don’t wait for their spew, slash before they open mouth.’

Maegorn nodded. All this and more he’d heard from Rakhadar, who had given him endless annoyingly-detailed instructions, from ‘slash-before-they-open-mouth’ to ‘wear-warm-socks-it-might-be-cold-on-the-mountain’, until Maegorn felt like dropping on the ground and throwing a fit Bebukul-style; but her concern felt nice.

‘Thank you for your advice, Jasofrah,’ he said, covering his shoulders with the cloak. ‘And your care.’

‘My care is not for you, elf,’ she said. ‘For him.’ She moved her face closer, her eyes hard but not unkind. ‘Don’t you dare die.’

Up the mountain they raced, and no matter how high they climbed or how steep the precipice was, the firebloods never slowed or broke the chain. Over and over Maegorn murmured praise to Bakoo-ra, who, while he was still not always exact in his hip-rolling, simply followed the other riders.

They took position on a flat rocky area, Guabohr’s regiment in front for attack, Rakhadar’s and Jasofrah’s soldiers spread out in the back to finish off the demons that had seeped through. Standing right in the middle of the second chain, Maegorn drew in the air, but there was nothing, not a whiff of the enemy. Sometimes it was the same with firebloods – one moment they would be easily detectable, reeking of sweat and spice, and then – once they got too angry – ‘crazy on fire’, Bebukul called it – they’d go odorless, fire burning all the smells away. The demons, Rakhadar had explained, were always crazy on fire. Always angry. Animals.

Up in a distance, the green fire on top of Tower 76 fluttered anxiously in the gusts of bone-chilling wind. They had scaled high and Maegorn marveled at the air, clean and crisp, that cooled his lungs and cleared his head. On the exhale, he could see his own hurried breaths.

And then came the howls. And the growling. And Rakhadar’s order to get ready.

Maegorn hadn’t had enough practice with fighting while riding, so he dismounted and stood next to Bakoo-ra. Driving his fingers hard into her skin, he whispered, ‘Keep close to me, girl.’ He had the time to throw only one glance up the towering cliff, where Bebukul was kneeling, gaping down from behind his jakothar, before the demons poured in from a cave.

Unsheathing his swords, Maegorn waited.

When Rakhadar had told him to take the second line, he had been worried he wouldn’t have enough to kill, but he had worried in vain. After a few moments of intense clanking and growling, demons started to come through, snapping their heads looking for prey. Maegorn picked the ugliest one – turned-out nostrils, drooling snout, tufts of greasy fur covering the pike-studded back – and charged towards it, calculating the best angle for attack. There was little resemblance between the composed skilled soldiers by his side and the wild growling creature that he was now facing, but was the demons’ basic anatomy similar to the firebloods’? Was the skin on their neck, thickened by the fire spewing, as impenetrable?

Maegorn slashed.

His swords bounced off the thick neck like off the trunk of a gum tree, twisting his wrists and making him stagger. The red-eyed maw lunged. He evaded the fangs, but not the claws – the paw tore through the fabric on his shoulder, drawing blood. He ignored it, delivering another blow. Now he put all his force into driving his swords along the creature’s sides in a searing, not a hitting motion. The demon exploded in a fountain of dark blood and fell, writhing, to the ground. The same second Bakoo-ra’s jaws closed on its face.

By the time the beast finished gurgling, Maegorn had already found a new target: a swiveling hissing yellow-skinned demon with a mouth full of dagger-like fangs. It snapped at him, flashing serrated teeth before the spew, but Maegorn didn’t become the youngest general of Frawvanna by forgetting useful advice. Slash before the spew. That’s what he did. He slashed the beast’s lower stomach – and it proved easier than cutting though the neck muscles.

One of his swords got stuck in the monster’s intestines – they clung to the metal like a biting ivy. He was still pulling at the blade when Bakoo-ra’s concerned bark made him look up. A muzzle, wide and throbbing, was aimed at him, about to spew fire: he saw the nascent flames burning through the long wobbling uvula. The instinct that had lain in wait for five years kicked in—he jumped. Lifting his swords up, stretching his body and sending it up in a screw, he jumped; made a turn in the air, arched above the demon’s horns and landed softly behind it. The demon was erupting in a flow of deadly fire when Maegorn’s swords plunged into the nape of its head. The fire ceased. The demon sagged. Maegorn moved on.

Thirty-three monsters later, he had a hunting log in his mind: Pikey-Fatbacks died easiest after losing their eyes; Fang-Uglies were vulnerable under the belly; red-skinned Crab-Grabbies couldn’t handle the stress of being separated from their claw-like appendages; Shit-Stinkers took it too close to heart when he thrust both his swords into their chest as they lifted on their hind legs to howl. And if all else failed, none of them expected it when he leaped up in the air, landed behind and drove his swords into their backs as they were twisting their maws to detect where he’d disappeared.

Another monster emerged, horns twisted forward and teeth jutting in different directions. A Booger-Snot. Maegorn blinked the sweat out of his eyes and crouched, readying for the blow. This one took a lot of focus. On its fours, the demon snarled. Maegorn waited. The beast opened its mouth. Maegorn waited. The monster took a breath to spew – Maegorn thrust his swords forward, driving them into the wide throat and twisted. The fire died before it burst out, Bakoo-ra’s jaws making sure the beast was finished.

Maegorn stepped over the carcass towards the next creature, lifting his swords to strike, when the bulging red eyes exploded, the massive body split in two, both the halves dropping to the ground with a sickening splat. Rakhadar – brow glistening with sweat, chin dripping with oil, hands clasped around the saber that was still finishing its deadly arc – looked like a nightmare. Maegorn couldn’t be much better, his shoulder torn, braid half undone, face smeared with blood. Their glances bounced, assessing each other’s state, then met. They gave each other crooked smiles. A monster appeared between them. Maegorn slashed at its clawed hands, while Rakhadar hacked off the head. As more creatures poured in, they stepped closer to each other.

Something moved behind Rakhadar – an enormous black mass of muscle and horns. Maegorn took a step back at the sight of the new monster – bigger than any he’d seen – and even before Rakhadar turned, following his line of vision, and yelled a command, Maegorn knew what it would be.

‘Take cover!’ Rakhadar yelled loud enough to burst everyone’s eardrums.

 _Yunnagg_ firebloods called it, Incinerator – the only demon strong enough to fly, its spewing radius so massive, all the soldiers on the battlefield needed to hide behind their cloaks, not just the ones fighting it. Maegorn threw the thick prickly fabric over himself and Bakoo-ra: salt or no salt, her eyes and nose were still vulnerable. And then it came. The pounding heat, its mere force pushing him, making his feet slide back along the bloodied stone. He screwed up and cursed, driving his heels into the sleek surface. But the cloak was good: the heat raged around him, drying the air and reddening his cheeks, but not inflicting much damage. Had the elves had these during the war, they’d be now the sole rulers of the island.

From under his cover he saw the other soldiers holding their cloaks over themselves and their jakothar, while lesser demons dropped around in smoking bones – Yunnagg didn’t care that its kind was dying in friendly fire.

At last the fire ceased, Incinerator pausing for a breath, and it was the moment for the firebloods to retaliate. Maegorn lowered his hand: he wanted to see. Now, when they were on the same side, when there was nothing to fear and no one to hate, he wanted to witness their power.

Rakhadar chugged a bottle oil and, while the demon was still getting ready, spewed fire. A shaft of beaming orange burst out of his throat, well-aimed and steady, with low humming and a firework of sparkles. His body glowed with a web of luminescent veins, as if, instead of blood, they were now pumping pure lava. It was beautiful, Maegorn could find no other word to describe it.

Other firebloods joined Rakhadar, their fire streams hitting Yunnagg from all directions. The beast writhed in agony, lifting into the air, slashing its paws to grab at some flesh, but they evaded; when one paused for more oil, others kept going. Trapped in a fire cage, the demon thrashed, but the more it buckled, the harder it burnt. Its charred carcass huffed down in a pitiful moan and a cloud of dust.

Maegorn rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers around the bloodied hilts. The leftover demons were still lurking behind rocks, so he joined the firebloods going about to finish them.

That had been a good fight. Maegorn felt good. Once he came back to Frawvanna, he would open the elves’ eyes on everything: the demons and the firebloods, the portals and the towers. This alone could earn him a Major Tag. Truth-Sayer or some such. Not exactly the tag he’d been dreaming of, but wait till they find out how many actual demons he’d slayed. Could he be the first elf to be awarded both a civil and a military Major Tags? Perhaps he could keep both and have a double tag? That would be something his father would have been proud of. Perhaps even jealous. Maegorn felt his lips stretch in a smile.

A movement flickered on his periphery. A scarred and twisted Pikey-Back was crawling up the cliff – hungry tongue hanging out, saliva dripping from the fangs. It was moving away from the soldiers, while Maegorn had been told demons always looked for a victim. Where was this one going?

Maegorn’s heart jumped into his throat, almost choking him.

Bebukul.

There he was, an idiot of a fireling, peering down, mesmerized by the battle, oblivious of the slobbery fangy monstrosity clawing its way towards him.

‘Bebukul!’ Maegorn yelled, his feet already carrying him to the cliff. ‘Run!’

He leaped, grabbing at a handhold, pulling up, reaching higher, not looking for the best holdings, simply leaping up and grasping at whatever there was protruding enough to jam his grazed fingers into and move further. He’d never climbed this fast.

There was clanking up above and Maegorn clenched his teeth. Why wasn’t the little idiot running?

With a grunt he heaved himself over the edge and lunged towards Bebukul. The boy’s face was fear-stricken, but his body was frozen in a pretty decent right-side defence, which could have protected him from an elven honour combatant but left him no chance against this drooling snarling spiked slaughter machine.

Still in the charging mode, Maegorn crashed into Bebukul, sending him tumbling towards the side of the cliff, out of the monster’s way. He lost a precious moment and was punished with searing pain as the giant claws grazed his forearm. The wide maw snapped open, hot stinky breath hitting him moments before the fire would, so he sent his body up in a jump. But he was tired. Tired and scared. Even as he started the jump, he knew he wouldn’t make it. Instead of flying in an arc over the monster’s head, he toppled on its back, the thick cloak protecting him from the spikes. Howling, the demon shook its head, then prowled, but Maegorn chugged his swords and clutched the horns. He pulled himself up, using the spikes as footholds, and when his knees pushed into the monster’s shoulder blades, yanked a dagger out of his boot and stuck it under the meaty ear, aiming upwards and to the side. The short blade caught on the skull and bent, but went all the way through, the tip jutting from the beast’s socket. The demon buckled a few times and dropped.

Maegorn tumbled off the carcass and pressed his forehead into his palms, the nape of his head warming in the soft rays of the morning sun.

‘By the Inferno Mother! That was incredible!’

Bebukul was sitting, scratched and bruised, but wide-eyed and smiling, on a rock, as if Maegorn had just bettered Irillion at their morning practice, not slayed a monster that nearly had him for breakfast. Despite the exhaustion, Maegorn leaped to his feet and erupted in a stream of cussing that would have earned him Le’unn’s applause. The boy probably didn’t know most of the words, but Maegorn’s intonation was self-explanatory.

Bebukul flinched. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whimpered, ‘Karash wanted to fight, he nearly jumped off the cliff, so I tied him to a rock with my cloak, and it got stuck – I couldn’t leave him—’ The jakothar, Bebukul’s cloak still tied to his neck, gave a quiet bark, as if to prove the boy’s words.

‘Well, next time, you dumb little shmuttbutt,’ Maegorn yelled, ‘why don’t you—’

‘Bebukul,’ came a calm voice. Rakhadar was standing next to them, hands folded on his chest.

Bebukul sprang up. ‘Brother, I’m sorry!’ The fireling’s voice grew even more pitiful, ‘Karash—’

‘I’m very proud of you, Bebu, you were very brave.’

Under Maegorn’s shocked glance, he wrapped his arms around the boy’s shoulders. For a moment, Bebukul stood rigid in the embrace, even his ears tightening, and then melted.

‘Thank you, Rakha,’ he breathed.

‘You did well, Bebu,’ Rakhadar said, straightening, ‘but for a while this was your last battle.’ He turned to Maegorn. ‘Not yours though,’ he said, smiling darkly.

Maegorn looked down at the trail of mutilated carcasses he’d left on his way here. He hadn’t even noticed fighting them.

Following Bebukul down the cliff, Maegorn felt Rakhadar’s curious looks and soon ran out of patience.

‘What?’

Rakhadar gave him another sidelong glance. ‘I just… some of the curse words you used – I’ve never heard them… Shmuttbutt? May I ask what it means?’

Maegorn snorted. ‘I have no idea. When I’m stressed, my brain comes up with these things and my mouth blurts them out. I have no say in the matter.’ 

Together, they ascended the cliff, to find all the demons finished and the firebloods standing in a tight circle over a body. A fireblood’s body. It was badly burnt, but still obviously a female’s, and her jakothar stood beside her, poking its nose into her unmoving shoulder.

Rakhadar’s palms balled into fists. ‘Which one did this?’

Guabohr was the only one who was looking straight at him. ‘Yunnagg.’

Rakhadar gave a low growl.

‘Why didn’t she take cover when I ordered?’

The firebloods avoided his glance, a few openly crying.

Rakhadar raised his voice, ‘Why didn’t she take cover when I ordered?’

The silence was heavy and pained, and Rakhadar yelled, ‘Why didn’t she take—’

‘Bark bark bark take cover bark,’ Guabohr yelled back.

Rakhadar shuddered as if he’d been whipped. He stood, clenching his jaw, then lifted the body and settled it on his jakothar.

‘Let’s head back.’

Maegorn did ask Bebukul why the female hadn’t taken cover when Rakhadar had ordered, and Bebukul said, ‘She didn’t know what _take cover_ meant in Elvish.’

Maegorn asked whether he could attend the funeral, but, just as a fireblood wedding was a private matter and only required the presence of the lovers and the king’s adviser, so was a funeral attended by none except the immediate family and the king.

Maegorn did try to tell himself it was just a fireblood. Then he tried telling himself that it wasn’t a fireblood he knew personally. Or ever talked to. Nothing worked. They weren’t faceless dogs anymore. They were all somebody’s brothers. And sisters. And daughters. And sons. Just like Urtagu had been. Only now Maegorn knew whose son Urtagu had been. The moment their party returned to the castle, he went looking for Zarbezahl.

‘What’s with all the oil?’ Maegorn asked, as barrels after barrels were being rolled out of the warehouse – each handled by at least three grumping and sweating firebloods – and arranged in neat stacks in the yard.

Zarbezahl straightened at his voice. As Maegorn approached, he took half a step away. A tiny, cautious half step.

‘The Young Fire festival,’ he said.

Right. The time of year when for a whole night the mountain turned into a giant bonfire, with drums and howls keeping elves awake, as they lay cursing and inventing new spiteful tags for each fireblood they knew.

One of the workers pointed in Maegorn’s direction and barked a question. Zarbezahl answered, smirking, and all the firebloods burst out laughing, even the young assistant by Zarbezahl’s side snickered over his book.

Maegorn’s cheeks flushed. He deliberated walking away, not used to laughter at his expense, but the smooth golden plaque in his pocket had sewn his feet to the spot.

‘What you want? I have less time,’ Zarbezahl said, rude due to the lack of language, but also, perhaps, purposely so.

‘I won’t take much of your time, adviser. Could we talk in private?’

Maegorn nodded towards the young assistant and after a long pause Zarbezahl barked the boy away.

‘I…’ Maegorn had to clear his throat, as it’d grown extremely dry. ‘I didn’t know Urtagu was your son.’

Zarbezahl looked up at the sun. ‘Urtagu _was_ my son,’ he repeated slowly. His voice dropped on _was_ , as if he pondered the pastness if it.

‘He was a great warrior,’ Maegorn said.

Zarbezahl smiled mirthlessly. ‘My son _was_ great star reader,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘but warrior – no.’ He waved at Maegorn, perhaps meaning that had Urtagu been a great warrior, it would have been him standing here instead of Maegorn. He didn’t have the words for it, but Maegorn understood.

‘I am sorry.’

‘It was war. He was soldier. You was soldier.’ Zarbezahl looked at the sun again. ‘His part of star map not finish. Shame.’ He ran a hand over his bald head. ‘It all?’

Maegorn held out his hand, gold blinking on his palm. The plaque was simple, with crude Firetongue letters spelling only three lines, but every time Maegorn looked at it, his heart wrenched and bled.

And to think moments before he saw it for the first time, he’d been so happy, so thrilled to be back in battle: he’d been away for years, living on mainland with his aunt and cousin, and there he was, back in the jungle. Home.

They’d led the demons into U’tron’s trap, with half of the horned beasts dead and the other half standing in a trembling circle, dropping their weapons under the elves’ arrowpoints, prince Rakhadar himself begging for mercy, when one sleazy mangy dog reached into his skirt for a hidden dagger. Without thinking, Maegorn sent his throwing knife and the demon died before his body hit the ground. Rakhadar jerked towards the fallen soldier but was tackled down by the elven guards.

After the demons had been escorted into their tree cells, a nasty gnawing feeling pulled Maegorn back to the battlefield. He found the demon’s body, and as he searched the wide folds of the stupid skirt, the only thing he found was the golden plaque. No knife. No blade. Just a small piece of gold with three lines of awkward letters. However much Maegorn tried, he saw no way it could be used as a weapon, so he went down to the library and with the help of a withered smudgy Firetongue dictionary translated the inscription. ‘To our son,’ it said. ‘May your fire burn brighter than a guiding light.’

Maegorn was depressed for days. U’tron told him it was just a demon. Le’unn told him to stop being a pussy. Silveryn quoted some wise and senseless bullshit from an ancient dead prick like Rung’ellon. With time Maegorn learnt to numb the guilt away. Until now.

He reached his hand closer. ‘I’m sorry I took it.’

Zarbezahl stared at the plaque as if it were a ghost. ‘You took it as… _rush’haar?_ ’ He barked the word louder for the young assistant and the boy looked up from the book. ‘Trophy,’ he translated.

Maegorn shook his head. ‘I took it to remember that every fireblood I kill is somebody’s son.’

Zarbezahl narrowed his eyes and Maegorn held the red glance without faltering.

‘Do you want me to talk to Kut’ha?’ he asked.

‘No, no. She need not know,’ Zarbezahl said, taking the plaque.

Maegorn shuffled his feet. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

Zarbezahl rubbed the skin around his horns.

‘My son… _was_ generous fireblood. Take care of what he leave for you.’

At his bark, the assistant returned, and they lowered over the book.

Maegorn stood, then turned and walked back towards the castle. He had a feeling Zarbezahl was not only referring to the jakothar.


	11. Chapter 11

‘What?’ Guabohr roared, his voice intensified by the stunned silence.

Everybody stared at Rakhadar, even Zarbezahl’s scribe looked up from his record book.

Rakhadar steeled his jaw. This was just like the time he proposed truce with elves. Or celebrating Amass. Or wearing underwear. Any change was met with suspicion and required months of deliberations. Only he didn’t have months now. He had a day.

‘I put forth the proposition to cancel the holy sacrifice during the Young Fire festival,’ he repeated just as sternly.

Guabohr was breathing loudly through his nose.

‘No,’ he said, the slash across his face growing pitch-black. ‘No.’ It was obvious he had more to say, but anger clogged his throat and he ended up pounding his fist at the table. 

‘State your reason for the record book, your Blaze,’ was Zarbezahl’s ceremonial reply.

‘You want his reason?’ Guabohr boomed. ‘The pointy-ears is his reason, that’s what. Now everything is about him; I can’t fart without making sure the ash-tosser isn’t standing behind. _We don’t want the smutty frangipani to think we are savages_.’ He glared at Rakhadar. ‘We are firebloods, not frying jungle flowers. For thousands of years we’ve been making this sacrifice and we’re not stopping now. It’s a tradition. Firebloods respect traditions.’ He sat back, crossing his arms on his chest.

‘Should I record this as a _no_ , Commander?’ Zarbezahl asked.

Guabohr huffed. ‘You can ink that _no_ on your scribe’s forehead.’

The boy jerked his head up, but at Zarbezahl’s tongue-clicking, dove back into the record book.

‘Your Blaze?’ Zarbezahl asked.

‘The sacrifice is a barbaric remnant of the past,’ Rakhadar said. ‘Just like we don’t eat our fallen enemies anymore, we don’t need to burn the cub. Jakothar have been our friends for centuries and killing one each year because it is weak or ill or has no tail is treachery. To seriously believe incinerating the poor animal will bring us better gem harvest next year goes against good sense. Instead of the sacrifice of flesh, I suggest making a hay statue of a jakothar and putting it to fire.’ He looked around at the frowning faces.

‘Speak forth,’ Zarbezahl said, and one by one named the members of the council. ‘Master of Ceremony?’

Hugir shifted in her seat and Rakhadar knew what she would say even before she opened her mouth.

‘Firebloods will expect the sacrifice. The cub is ready and so is the arena. We can’t decide this a day before the festival. This must be put forth for the common vote.’

‘We don’t have time for the common vote.’

‘Then we don’t cancel it, your Blaze.’ She looked at him. ‘My vote is _no_.’

Zarbezahl looked at Jasofrah. ‘Captain of the Guard?’

‘I vote _yes_ ,’ Jasofrah said, scratching her ear. At Guabohr’s grumble, she shrugged. ‘I don’t like the smell of burning meat while I’m still not allowed to eat.’

‘Officers?’

‘My vote is _no_ ,’ Izhul said, and, without waiting to be called, her sister followed, ‘I vote _yes_.’ Apparently, they were fighting again and acting out of spite.

‘Chief of the Mines?’

‘We can’t risk a gem harvest, your Blaze,’ said Mabgurun. ‘I vote _no_.’

‘Chief of the Kennels?’

‘I understand the sacrifice is a tradition, an important one,’ Apka said, ‘but the cub... it doesn’t have to suffer. My vote is _yes_.’

‘Young Blaze?’

Bebukul looked up from his notes. He was always making notes now – a strange code of names and little lines next to them.

‘I vote _yes_ ,’ he said, ignoring Guabohr’s growl. His eyes flashed. ‘Can I keep the cub?’

There was only one person left on the council. The voice that was to decide everything.

Zarbezahl sat quietly for a bit.

‘The holy sacrifice is a tradition that we have carried from ages ago and we are to respect our history, lest we want to dissolve the spirit of firebloods. But… your Blaze is right, some traditions are better left behind, and even you, Commander, have a tradition you were happy to abolish.’ Zarbezahl lingered on Guabohr’s scowling face, then turned back to Rakhadar. ‘This, however, is another matter, your Blaze. I did not oppose the alterations of Amass, as making an elven festival more elven – I understand this, but,’ he clicked his tongue, ‘changing our traditions to please someone who refuses to respect our culture – in clothes, language or food – seems like a waste. I vote _no_ , your Blaze.’

After the council was over, Bebukul lingered in the cave. He approached Rakhadar as he sat, nervously scratching his elbow.

‘I could take him to _chapadabha_.’

‘What?’

‘Maegorn. I could invite him to the lake before the sacrifice starts. He won’t see it, he won’t know it happened.’

Rakhadar gave a sour smile.

‘Thank you, Bebu.’ He patted Bebukul on the shoulder. These brotherly touches still felt awkward, but not unthinkable as before. ‘But it would be lying. I don’t want to lie to him.’

Three hours before dawn Rakhadar was in his study, looking down through the window at the training firelings. He didn’t have to come this early, but he was unable to sleep anyway. As he was rehearsing what he would say to Maegorn about the festival, about Shukh-chuh and the damn sacrifice, he kept annoying the skin around his elbows and wiping his sweaty palms against the skirt.

Deep in thought, he watched the Zest Bazaar. Eleven firelings were going through the motions of their warm-up. Was someone missing?

In a violent flash of the skirt, Kut’ha was running across the square, training swords in hands. Was at least someone in Zarbezahl’s family capable of being late?

Kut’ha ran straight to Maegorn and pushed on his shoulder to make him face her. Then she yelled something – Rakhadar couldn’t hear the words, but her pale cheeks and snapping mouth were self-explanatory. Maegorn reached a hand towards her – and that’s when she spat in his face.

A challenge. Kut’ha was challenging Maegorn.

Rakhadar stood, blinking, and then bolted down the stairs. By the time he reached the square, the firelings had stopped their duels and stood a murmuring pack of scared cubs, venturing placating words at Kut’ha, but she didn’t listen. Her face was tear-stricken and extremely pale.

‘Traitor,’ she yelled in a mix of Elvish and Firetongue. ‘Murderer. I hate you!’ She leaped at Maegorn, wielding her swords and he staggered back, putting his blades up to let hers slide against them.

‘I’m sorry,’ he was saying, backing away. His face was crumbling. ‘I’m so sorry.’

She leapt again, and his block was tired, forced, unwilling.

There was loud panting and heavy steps and the pained cries of ‘Kut’ha, stop it!’ Rakhadar stepped forward, holding Zarbezahl from intervening. Zarbezahl grabbed his hand.

‘Stop them, Rakhadar, I beg you. Tell him not to hurt her.’

Rakhadar ground his teeth. ‘You know I can’t.’

Growling, Kut’ha kept attacking Maegorn, and he kept blocking.

‘You killed him, you worm,’ she roared, her voice breaking to a pained howl. ‘ _Aghroja_!’ _A soul without fire._

She attacked him again – a fierce, hateful blow. And this time he didn’t block it. Didn’t put up his blades, didn’t shield himself – let the practice swords sink into his left side. They weren’t sharp enough to cut him, but he screwed up in pain and swayed. She hit again. And again. She kept swinging her swords until he staggered and dropped to his knees. He was weeping. She chugged the blades and charged at him with her fists, hitting him on his chest and shoulder, her hands working, her mouth cussing until her words turned into sobs and then his hands were around her and she pressed towards him and cried, cried, cried. ‘I’m so sorry, Kut’ha, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Maegorn kept saying.

Rakhadar dropped his hands, and Zarbezahl bent in the waist, palms clasping at the knees. He was quietly growling. 

Rakhadar let out a breath. ‘You knew she would react this way. Why did you tell her?’

Still shaking, Zarbezahl straightened. ‘I didn’t.’ There was so much dark fire in his eyes that Rakhadar flinched. Zarbezahl scowled, ‘But I know who did.’ He stomped away and Rakhadar followed, just to prevent another challenge.

Guabohr was found in the kennels. He narrowed his eyes at their approach.

‘Dimhead!’ Zarbezahl yelled, standing short and stocky, but somehow above him.

‘How dare you—’

‘How dare _you_!’

‘She deserved to know.’

‘My family’s past is none of your business. You don’t decide what my daughter knows. Or when she dies.’

‘What?’

‘She challenged him!’

To his credit, Guabohr did look shocked. And then worried. And then he was back to his usual self.

‘At least someone did.’

Zarbezahl clenched his fists.

‘I hope you’re just this unbelievably stupid, Guabohr. Stupid, not evil. That you were simply dim enough not to guess she would challenge him, not planning for my daughter to die so that you could say _I told you so_.’ Guabohr crossed his arms on his chest and turned away, so Zarbezahl faced Rakhadar. ‘I’ve changed my mind, your Blaze. The sacrifice is a barbaric atrocity and I wholeheartedly support your proposition to cancel it.’

When he stomped away, Guabohr dropped his hands. He stuffed them in the pockets of his skirt.

‘Kut’ha is unhurt, I take it?’

‘Zarbezahl didn’t gauge your eyes out, did he.’ Rakhadar turned to leave. ‘You are appointed the Master of Sacrifice, uncle. Make sure the straw statue is nice and tall.’

Rakhadar pulled at the long sleeves of his celebratory gem-studded top. Smoothed the folds of the skirt – bright red with orange flames embroidered on the hem. Sleeked down the knot on top of his head, brushing his claws at the apple-shaped gem clasp. The stone in the clasp was deep red and darkened towards the middle to a swipe of black, making it resemble a horizontal pupil. The rarest of all gems that the Inferno Mother birthed – the jorandit. The same clasp was in his pocket.

A present. For Maegorn. Should he take it.

He cleared his throat and muttered, _‘You’re the apple of my eye, and the fire of my soul, should you ever say good-bye, I’ll be but a smoking coal...’_ Never had the words of A’Kuruniel rung so true.

He knocked. There were light steps and the door creaked. Rakhadar opened his mouth for a greeting, but the words got stuck in his throat, because Maegorn was wearing a long-sleeved gem-studded black top and a bright red skirt, orange flames embroidered at the hem. When Rakhadar was sending the celebratory outfit, he didn’t have much hope Maegorn would wear it, so now he stood, blinking, unable to speak.

Maegorn tugged at the sleeves and pulled at the skirt.

‘I look ridiculous,’ he said.

You look flaming. Better than blooming hero trees in spring. A spark of the guiding light in darkness. A river of fire.

‘Fine,’ Rakhadar said. ‘I mean, you’re-you’re fine. You look fine. Better than fine.’ He cursed, paling, then looked up. ‘But your hair…’ The knot on top of Maegorn’s head was a mess.

Maegorn chuckled. ‘Bebukul,’ he explained.

They shuffled their feet awkwardly, until Rakhadar said, ‘May I?’

Maegorn retreated inside the cave and sat crossed-legged by the window, holding out a comb. Rakhadar neared him and for a moment held his breath. He pulled at the silk ribbon and the dark hair spilled over the shoulders like a rippling waterfall with the setting sun playing hide-and-seek in the swirling rapids. At least it was freshly washed and didn’t have Maegorn’s true tantalizing scent. The time Maegorn had come for his first riding lesson Rakhadar could barely focus. The whole training there was nothing he wanted more than to stick his head into the crook of that neck and breathe, breathe, breathe... But this was nice, too. Coconutty.

Scooping the top half of the hair, he pulled it up. He tried using the comb, but it was only getting in the way.

‘I… I don’t know how to use this,’ he said, handing it back.

‘But then how do you—’

Rakhadar protruded his claws. Slowly, not to startle.

‘Oh,’ was all Maegorn said.

Rakhadar plunged the black tips into the honey-colored mane – by the Inferno Mother, soft like milk froth – and raked it up. Much better. He worked it into a tight knot, folded another one around it and fastened them with a ribbon. He almost forgot about the hair clasp.

Maegorn looked at the crimson apple-shaped gem on his palm, then at the one in Rakhadar’s hair.

‘It does look like your eye,’ he said softly. ‘Even the horizontal pupil is here.’ He brushed his fingers over the smooth surface. ‘The apple of your eye?’ he chuckled. ‘Clever.’

Rakhadar’s cheeks paled. How could he have forgotten about elven hearing? Dimhead. But Maegorn didn’t look upset. He was smiling.

Rakhadar’s fingers tingled when he was fastening the clasp to the brown hair.

As they took their places at their festive tables, Rakhadar was beaming. Maegorn’s presence to his right felt different. With every closed portal Maegorn’s voice grew louder, his eyes shone brighter and his mouth smiled wider. He’d been in more than a dozen raids now, in the last one – to a portal small enough for one division to close and Rakhadar engaged with the castle affairs – Maegorn was assigned in charge of his regiment. Izul’s raid report praised the elf’s strategic decisions, and, however much Guabohr later raged about Rakhadar’s dim-headedness, Maegorn’s glinting eyes and confident smile were all he cared about. And now, as firebloods stared at Maegorn’s new look, Rakhadar was bursting with pride. Go eat salt, uncle.

He was swiping his eyes haughtily across the tables, when a movement caught his eye – Bebukul, gesturing wildly at Maegorn.

Rakhadar turned. ‘No!’ he yelped, and Maegorn froze, a piece of flatbread halfway to his mouth. ‘You can’t eat till the end of the ceremony.’

Under the scrutinizing eyes of the whole Zest Bazaar, Maegorn put the bread back to the piles of food.

‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I forgot.’

‘It’s a silly superstition. The food has not been purified by the young fire, so it’s considered dirty—’

Drrrum. Drrrum. Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrum.

It began. There was nothing else Rakhadar could say, not with all the drumming, so he closed his mouth.

Rukutum-rukutum-drrrrrrum.

Rukutuku-rukutuku-rukutuku-rukutuku-dururururum.

Teams of drummers were competing, taking turns beating their heavy melon-shaped instruments, wielding the wide-handled diamond-headed hammers. Unlike the battle drumming, where every pattern meant a command, this was wild and unpredictable. They drummed in chorus and then let their best performers show their solos.

‘I’m sorry for all the noise,’ Rakhadar said over the din.

Maegorn looked at him askance. ‘You don’t have to apologize for all things fireblood.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Last night you apologized that firebloods get on their fours when they pray to the Inferno Mother, and the day before that jakothar mark their riders by peeing on them. Will you apologize tomorrow for the sun burning too bright? Besides,’ he smiled, ‘I enjoy this.’

This had to be a joke. ‘Are you being,’ – Rakhadar looked for a word – ‘sarcasmic?’

‘Sarcastic?’ Maegorn chuckled when Rakhadar repeated the word softly not to make the mistake in the future. ‘No, I’m not. This is… passionate.’

‘Is it?’ Rakhadar tilted his head. What could be passionate about this primitive pounding?

‘Don’t you feel it?’

‘I… I prefer something more melodious. The elven lute is my favorite. It can relate the subtlest emotions, while this is just a repetitive noise.’

Maegorn looked at him in surprise. ‘Drums are full of emotion. It’s raw and primal and thrums though your body. It’s always made me want to jump.’ Maegorn closed his eyes for a moment, then grabbed Rakhadar’s hand and pressed it to the ground. ‘Here, feel it.’

At first Rakhadar felt nothing except the coolness of Maegorn’s fingers atop of his. But as he sat, Maegorn watching him excitedly, there was something else, too: the distant thrum slithering down the back of his spine, sending goosebumps in all directions. Like a rub against the fur. Or a faraway grumpy voice.

‘You feel it?’

Rakhadar looked carefully into Maegorn’s eyes. ‘I do.’

Maegorn took his fingers away and the magic ceased.

‘Is this Jasofrah’s husband?’ Maegorn asked, pointing to the stage.

Ruhgar was drumming loud enough for the mainland elves to be jumping on their beds, so Maegorn had to lean in closer to be heard. Cool breath brushed against Rakhadar’s ear and it twitched instinctively. A sweet shiver ran down Rakhadar’s neck. He nodded.

‘He’s good.’ Maegorn wanted to say something else, but finally waved a hand and waited, until the drummers stepped back, playing softer slower rhythms, clearing space for the flame dancers. Males and females, chests bare save for the multiple strings of gems, carried bowls of fire on their heads. Their movements were smooth and seductive, reminding that no night was more perfect for any willing firebloods to share their fire.

‘Why the bowls?’ Maegorn asked.

‘The dancers are thanking the old fire for the warmth and energy it gave us this year and saying good-bye to it.’ Rakhadar fidgeted. ‘It’s my turn soon.’

‘Right, Bebukul said you were going to… um… give birth to the new fire? I thought he was joking.’

‘He wasn’t.’

‘Is it painful?’

Rakhadar smiled. ‘You’ll see.’

He jerked to rise but Maegorn’s cool fingers brushed against his and he froze.

‘Good luck,’ Maegorn said.

As Rakhadar was making his way to the changing tent, his chest felt too small for his heart. Never had he been this excited before the Fire Birth – today he could set the whole mountain aflame.

Zarbezahl helped him change. His black top was removed, and his chest was covered with strings of gems – emeralds, rubies and cinnamon stones. The Sovereign’s Orb was hung on the golden chains between his horns. This was the only occasion he agreed to wear it despite the tradition, the thought of a diamond ball filled with the horntips of all the previous – dead – rulers of Jorotaja irking him to no end. His mother had worn it at all times, even in bed. He had refused to wear it even for his wedding. But today was an exception.

At his usual request, his arms were covered with bracelets, from wrists to shoulders. A jingly armor to cover his ugliness.

He was ready.

The drumming picked up, the dancers’ movements sped up. Now they were dancing in a large circle, swaying hips, rolling shoulders and whirling around. The crushing drum roll started a new circle, the beats growing faster and louder. And then it stopped. The drummers lowered their hammers and stepped aside. The dancers dropped to their knees and set their bowls on the ground. In complete silence Rakhadar walked calmly into the middle of the circle.

He stood, breathing, the night’s shadows rolling softly off his shoulders.

One breath, another.

The first beat of the drum came like the first heartbeat of a person returning to life. Rakhadar jolted, pushing with one foot against the ground to make a full circle. Another beat. And another circle. It began.

Every year he would do the routine – with mastery, but without feeling. Today each thump resonated in his body. He moved with passion. Fire pulsed in his veins.

The drumming grew faster. Rakhadar whirled in sync. His skirt fluttered up, the embroidered flames on the hem drawing in the real flames from the bowls; and the faster he moved, the closer the fire leaned towards him, as if to a friend, extending its wavering arms. And then his skirt caught fire. It started at the edges and moved up. Rakhadar whirled faster; the drumming grew louder; the fire in the bowls roared and climbed up and embraced him… and then vanished from the bowls, all sucked in.

Rakhadar stopped, and so did the music. He stood for a few moments, letting the flames lick him, close in on him, and then he drew his hands together in one mighty clap. This brought on complete darkness.

For a few heartbeats, there was nothing, just blackness and silence, and in it – the sound of him opening a bottle and gulping the liquid. The next time he opened his eyes, they shone bloody red – two vehement guiding lights piercing the starless night. The sounds echoed – dozens of bottles being uncorked, oil travelling down dozens of throats, more and more ruby pairs of lights shining around the square. All directed at him. Waiting. Rakhadar shivered. The oil traveled along his body, his veins drawing his silhouette in a web of luminescent white. Little lightnings shimmered between his fingers and he rubbed his palms together, harder, harder, until a fire – shy, gentle, blue at the bottom and milky on top – emerged around his claws. He stretched his arms, encouraging the flames and, joyfully, they skidded up to his shoulders, neck, ran down to his stomach, along the skirt. In a moment he was a torch, engulfed in a blue Inferno, sending ghostly sparks at the audience.

He whirled. The bowls caught his fire.

He whirled again. A ripple of flames reached the feet of the firebloods and everyone hummed in excitement.

He screwed up and roared, whirling one more time. A gushing wave of fire blasted through the square, igniting the food on the tables, the rows of firebloods, and swooshed into the night.

Lifting his head towards the sky, Rakhadar howled, and dozens of others joined him, and then more and more howls were coming from a distance – fireblood mining villages, scattered along the mountain slopes, had heard his cry.

Everyone leaped to their feet. After a common inhale, they spewed fire at the straw statue. Together. It was ashes before anyone ran out of breath.

The excited drumming resumed and, leaving their places, firebloods mingled, kissing each other’s foreheads and saying the traditional congratulations.

Rakhadar relaxed his shoulders. His part was over.

Uncle approached him, his giant body adumbrated by the blue flames.

‘At least your fire is back,’ he said, smiling crookedly, and patted him on the back. ‘The old fire is mite.’

‘The new fire is bright,’ Rakhadar answered.

They kissed each other on the foreheads and Rakhadar moved to congratulate Zarbezahl. When all the necessary foreheads were kissed, he wiped the excess of oil. Still too sleek for his liking, he took off the Sovereign’s Orb, changed back into the celebratory top and returned to his place at the table next to Maegorn, who sat watching the firebloods as they were exchanging smiles, congratulations and kisses.

‘You can eat now,’ Rakhadar said.

Maegorn didn’t touch the food but turned to look at him. It was a long pensive look that made Rakhadar shift and lose color in his cheeks.

A tiny fireling approached them, her huge red eyes studying Maegorn without a trace of shyness. She spoke in Firetongue and held out her hand, a bright little flame dancing on her palm.

At Maegorn’s puzzled look, Rakhadar explained, ‘You don’t have your own fire, so she wants to share.’

Maegorn gave a surprised chuckle. ‘Thank you, little mango bird, but I can’t.’

‘You can,’ Rakhadar said. ‘This fire won’t burn you, it’s too young to harm. Take it.’

Slowly, Maegorn reached out his hand, palm up, and the girl let her flames skip onto it. Maegorn’s lips parted as he watched the sparks roll over his skin, warming, but not burning, and then ebb away.

‘Thank you, little mango bird,’ he said, then thanked her in Firetongue, ‘ _Darub og_.’

‘The old fire is mite,’ she squeaked, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

‘The new fire is bright,’ Rakhadar supplied, while Maegorn pressed his lips between the girl’s nascent horns. With a high-pitched howl, she skipped towards her parents, who stood nearby, vigilant, and together they walked away.

Maegorn’s smile stayed long after she was gone.

‘Do you get along with elflings just as easily as you do with firelings?’ Rakhadar asked.

Maegorn’s smile grew wistful. ‘I always connect with youngsters better than with my peers,’ he said. ‘Youngsters are much more… honest.’

The words stung Rakhadar’s heart. Didn’t he share Maegorn’s kindling day? The young golden-haired elf back in Frawvanna obviously didn’t.

‘What else is planned for today?’ Maegorn asked, waking him.

‘Lots of mindless fun. Fire spewing duels, a coal eating contest, jakothar races, a howling match. You can walk around the square, browse the goods, or have your body decorated with gem dust, or try throwing fireballs. There will be a procession to the Inferno Mother with sacrificial gifts. More drumming, of course – much, much more. Also dances and songs.’

‘Firebloods sing?’

‘Mostly howling, but we do have singers. Like Jasofrah.’

‘By the Spirits, Jasofrah sings? Is she good?’

Rakhadar nodded. ‘Not as good as you— I mean, not as good as elves,’ he corrected himself, but Maegorn had noticed.

‘When did you hear me sing?’

‘All elves sing well, so I-I assumed—’

‘Goat’s drum.’

Rakhadar peered in surprise, then laughed. Then he sighed. ‘When I was little,’ he said slowly, ‘I sneaked into the Lunalin forest, where you had classes with Master Kwildir.’

Maegorn’s eyes widened. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Which song—’ He answered his own question, ‘Aire...’

‘Yes.’ The song about the-boy-who-lived-on-a-star was the favorite of little boy Maegorn and, consequently, the favorite of little boy Rakhadar. ‘Your voice is magic.’

‘Le’unn is a much better singer—’

‘No. No she isn’t.’

Their eyes met and Maegorn didn’t argue.

‘How did you sneak past our patrols?’ he asked instead.

‘Through the wall of biting ivy. I found a small gap between the vines and not once did the guards see me.’

‘Not once? How many times did you do it?’

Rakhadar shrugged. ‘Many.’

Maegorn’s eyes filled with longing.

‘We used to play in the Lunalin forest almost every day.’ He was mindlessly rubbing his right wrist through the long sleeve and Rakhadar forced his eyes away.

‘I know.’ He looked up at the dancers, who were swaying sensually to the rumbling of the drums, now slow and trance-inducing. ‘I used to pretend I was part of your games.’

‘Why didn’t you show yourself?’

Maegorn’s voice was very near. The honey-colored eyes were watching him, the round pupils large and dark, and sucking him in like quicksand.

‘Would you have taken me in? Really? Or would you have called for your father to get rid of a _demon_ in the sacred forest?’

Maegorn dropped his eyes.

Rakhadar expected their conversation to be over, but instead, Maegorn reached out and brushed his knuckles. A flash of fire exploded where he touched, and Rakhadar jerked his hand away.

‘Sorry, today I-I have a hard time controlling it.’ He closed his fist, suppressing the flames, but Maegorn’s fingers were on his again.

‘Then don’t.’

Cool fingers trailed on his palm, igniting the skin. Maegorn was watching the harmless flames in wonder, basking in the bluish glow, which cast flickering shadows on his face.

‘Incredible...’ he murmured dragging his fingers along Rakhadar’s forearm. ‘Everything about today is...’

The touch was light, but Rakhadar’s heart shuddered. Was he being tormented on purpose? The hand moved up – trailing his shoulder, up the neck, towards his ear – and he lost control. The fire consumed him, from the tips of the claws to the knot on the head, and he let it. There was no harm today.

‘Rakhadar...’

The whisper was close. So close, his ear twitched at the puff of cool air. He stopped breathing.

‘Old fire is mite!’ announced a voice behind them, clear and loud, and they jumped apart.

‘Young fire is bright,’ Rakhadar said groggily. He barely answered his brother’s kiss.

Bebukul moved on to smooch Maegorn’s forehead.

‘Will you go to _chapadabha_ with us?’

‘Sure,’ Maegorn smiled. He turned to Rakhadar. ‘Will you go?’

Rakhadar opened his mouth, but Bebukul was faster.

‘Rakha never goes to the lake.’ He bent down to Maegorn’s ear. ‘He can’t swim.’

Little piece of ash.

Rakhadar worried the skin around his elbow, watching Maegorn rise.

‘See you tomorrow,’ Maegorn said.

Rakhadar forced his mouth to smile. ‘Have fun.’


	12. Chapter 12

For half an hour now Maegorn had been sitting, shifting his eyes from his usual tunic and leggings to the black top and the golden skirt.

Which was he to wear?

His light brown tunic was an old friend – worn at the edges, but warm and comfortable, his second skin. The golden skirt was new and shiny, it belonged to a different Maegorn, the one that rode a jakothar and killed demons, liked yesterday’s festival, enjoyed the dance of the young fire on his hand, had goose bumps at the memory of the sleek blue skin under his fingers... Which one was he today?

A moment later, he was buckling the gilded belt over the skirt and twisting his hair in a knot. Not as neat as Rakhadar’s, but a decent start. He sat, waiting for Irillion to walk him to breakfast, but there were no steps, no sounds – the whole castle seemed dead.

They had celebrated late into the night. Drunk on oil, the firelings were out of control, setting everything on blue fire, shuddering the mountain with their crazy howls. After swimming in the lake, they raced their jakothar up the slopes and took turns flying off the cliff. Had Zarbezahl not already been bald, he would have lost his hair out of worry. But except for a few mild injuries – Razzogul sprained his shoulder after an unsuccessful landing and Kut’ha threw up the coals she’d eaten for the contest – it ended well, for some even better than well: while Maegorn was half-carrying the groggy Bebukul home, he’d noticed quite a few kisses on the forehead growing into much more intimate congratulations. _P’hora_ , Bebukul had called it. Frying.

Now Maegorn stepped outside his room. ‘Morning, uglie,’ he gave his usual greeting to the monster by the door and brushed its marble head. He made his way straight to the kitchen, as – his consciousness kicked him in the butt – he had no idea where Irillion lived. Perhaps he could ask Bebukul for a tour of the castle once the fireling got sober.

His nose led him forward, to where pepper and cumin where the strongest. Twice did he stop to sneeze – he was walking in the right direction.

He knew what he’d see in the kitchen long before he neared the door – the heavy breathing and low growls didn’t leave room for doubt, and yet he refused to believe it. Now he stared. Irillion truly hadn’t been wasting his time in Jorotaja. He stood with his back to Maegorn, his buttocks naked and flexing as he thrust into a fireblood who was bent over the table. Her body was twisted in a half-circle, as Irillion held her by the horns and pulled her head back towards him at every move. Her eyes closed in ecstasy, she jerked back to meet his thrusts with howling enthusiasm, making the table – covered in flour and spice, just like their hands and faces – shudder and threaten to fall apart.

So this was the lucky one who got Irillion’s incredible weapon? By the animalistic growls she was extracting from him, she deserved it.

Maegorn backed away, softly stepping along the stone floor, until he was at a safe distance. Where was he to go now? What was he to do?

On the way back to his cave, he passed the common hall and peeked inside. Rakhadar was there, alone, half-lying on the cushions, a book in hand, with a table full of food in front of him. He was smiling at what he was reading. Rakhadar rarely smiled, mostly when he knew he was expected to, and even then his lips would stretch in a pained mask, as if he were a badly painted puppet, but this thing… was genuine. With it, he looked childish and vulnerable, even more so when he flapped his eyelashes, which weren’t that long but incredibly thick – like a painter’s brush. The knot on his head was loose and black tresses were falling over his eye, framing the blue cheekbone. His privacy was relaxed and cozy, and Maegorn deliberated on leaving him in peace, but his hunger prevailed.

A few steps inside he stopped and cleared his throat. Rakhadar looked up and scrambled to his feet, tossing the book away.

‘What are you doing here?’

Maegorn chuckled. ‘Good morning to you, too.’

Rakhadar’s cheeks paled. ‘I meant, why aren’t you in bed?’ He worked loose hair back into the knot. ‘Everyone’s allowed to sleep in, breakfast will only be served at noon.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Maegorn said, and hurried to add at Rakhadar’s panic, ‘I’m not used to sleeping that late anyway.’

They stood opposite each other, Rakhadar scratching his elbow and Maegorn tugging at his sleeve.

‘I don’t want to bother you—’

‘Oh, by all means, stay. Are-are you hungry? I could send for your cook—’

‘No need. Irillion is… otherwise occupied.’

They fidgeted some more.

‘I have some leftovers from yesterday.’ Rakhadar gestured at the table. ‘You can have the flatbread, and some curd… I’m afraid everything else is spicy.’

Maegorn settled down, studying the plates and the bowls. He’d tried most of them at the feast – the non-spicy vegetarian versions Irillion had made for him – and found two dishes interesting. They had the consistency of vomit, but when he closed his eyes, the taste was almost bearable.

‘I quite liked some of these yesterday,’ he said. ‘This one.’ He pointed at the reddish mush that looked like a ground toad but tasted of sweet tamarind and had the texture of puffed rice.

‘ _Keegha_. Soaked lentils and... umm… maybe you’d better not know.’

Maegorn agreed. ‘Is it really that bad? The spice?’

Rakhadar thought, then nodded. ‘It’s bad.’ He gave a small smile. ‘But you can try if you want.’

Resolutely, Maegorn pulled the bowl towards him.

‘I don’t have a fork, but maybe you can—’ Rakhadar trailed off, as Maegorn tore a piece of flatbread and used it to scoop the mush.

‘Always wanted to try this,’ Maegorn explained. He studied the food in his hand, took a deep breath and shoved it whole into his mouth. He chewed experimentally, then shrugged. ‘It’s not that—’ he started, and then his eyes popped out, his ears went flaming hot, his cheeks grew wet with tears. ‘Drink, drink!’ a voice came from far away and a goblet with white liquid was pushed into his hand. He drank, and choked, and felt no relief. Panting, he leaped to his feet and paced the room, until he could finally take a breath without his mouth threatening to explode. Then he stopped by the wall, pressing his forehead to the cool stone.

‘Fuuuuuuck,’ he groaned and heard a stifled laugh.

On wobbly feet, he returned to Rakhadar’s side and slumped down on the cushion.

‘By the Spirits…’ he wheezed, gulping down another goblet of curd and wiping his eyes. ‘My insides are on fire.’

Rakhadar leaned in with a smile. ‘Now you know how I feel _all the time_.’

Maegorn burst out laughing, even though his throat hurt like the death pit.

‘Alright,’ he said with a sniffle, ‘it’s flatbread and curd for me.’

Rakhadar was busy scooping the filling out of a large puffy bun. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘A pepperpie. The dough is not spicy.’

Maegorn tried and, indeed, it wasn’t.

They ate for a while, stealing glances at each other, but never quite turning.

‘What were you reading?’ Maegorn asked when he could feel his tongue again.

Slowly, Rakhadar held out the book: A’Kuruniel’s ‘Sky Tears’. The sassiest, most pathetic sloppy stuff, like _‘you’re the apple of my eye and the fire to my soul’_ , _‘leave me not or else I fade’_ and _‘once I love, I love forever.’_ Maegorn had found it romantic when they had been learning it at school, but since then life had taught him it was all… goat’s drum.

‘Alright, I have to ask,’ he said.

‘Hm?’

‘How do you know Elvish so well?’

Silence. Rakhadar licked his lips and reached for a pepperpie. When the bun was finished, he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

‘It’s because of my father.’

A lot was behind those simple words, if the time it took to say them was any indication.

‘Before mother became queen and cut all ties with mainland, grandfather served as the fireblood ambassador and would often take his youngest son on his missions, so father ended up speaking decent Elvish.’ 

‘I’ve never seen Gharaf,’ Maegorn admitted. ‘I was too young when…’ he trailed off.

‘When mother killed him?’ Rakhadar chuckled mirthlessly. ‘My father was not… a usual fireblood. I mean, most of the time he was just like mother – communicating in glares, yells and slaps – so I stayed low and kept out of the way. But one night, a night like this, right after the Young Fire festival, he called me to his cave – I was sure I would get a beating – but he… he handed me a book and told me to read it to him. It was a children’s book, with poems about Aire, and I did a lousy job – I hadn’t been exactly diligent in my classes – but when I finished, father was crying. He called me his Aire and hugged and kissed me and let me spend the night in his bed. When I approached him the next day, he slapped me, shook me by the horns and roared that if I ever bothered him again, he’d feed me to his jakothar.’ Rakhadar was mindlessly tearing a pepperpie to pieces. ‘A year later, he called me to his cave again. And now it was a book of Serell’s travels, and again he cried and hugged me till he was asleep. But come morning, he was back to his usual self, kicking me out. It happened every year… and sometimes I wished he was always like that, warm and caring, while other times I wished he was never like that, giving me love for a day and taking it away the next morning. But I studied Elvish like crazy – I wanted to be his boy-who-lived-on-a-star, even if for a night.’ Rakhadar looked at his hand that had got stained in the pepperpie filling and jerked his fingers to his mouth, but stopped, and wiped them with a napkin. ‘I even sneaked into the Lunalin forest, to listen to the real elves talk, learn the accent – that’s when I heard you sing about Aire and… I was just…’

Maegorn was tracing the intricate pattern on the emerald goblet. It was a beautiful, if a bit too twisting, pattern. Something inside him was now twisting just as hard.

Rakhadar cleared his throat. ‘I kept studying even after mother… after he was gone.’ 

‘Why did she do it?’

The tips of the black claws were showing for a heartbeat and retracting, in a nervous little rhythm. Was Rakhadar aware? His eyes seemed so far-off.

‘Why do elves think she did it?’

‘They say he questioned her right as the ruler, that he grew hungry for power.’ Maegorn had been on mainland when this had happened, so all he knew were rumors.

Rakhadar shook his head. ‘Father never undermined her. We’d had seven ruling queens before her, a female’s authority was sacred. Here everyone thinks she just went crazy on fire. Became a demon. But this is only a half-truth.’ He sighed. ‘I was on my way to father’s cave, as it was the night after the festival, when I heard screams and roars, so I hid behind the door. It was mother, and she yelled that father had betrayed her, that he didn’t deserve to be called a fireblood, that he was an ash-tosser and a ground worm, and that he would pay for being a liar and a coward. That was when she spat in his face.’

Maegorn already knew what that meant. He touched the bruises on his shoulder – they were still sore.

‘Do you know why?’

‘There were letters in her hands, lots and lots of letters. She ignited them – she was so strong, she could call fire whenever she wanted – and threw them to his feet. When she left, he crumbled to the floor, trying to save what was left of the paper. He looked at me, and at first, I thought he didn’t recognize me, so confused and helpless he looked. But then he grabbed me and gave me the blackened letters – some were old and yellow, others – quite new; he told me to keep them, read them, learn them by heart. He said… firebloods don’t deserve love.’

‘Did you read them?’ Maegorn asked, as Rakhadar had fallen silent.

He nodded. ‘I’d never thought Firetongue could be used to show such feeling.’

‘Who were they from?’

‘I never found out. They were signed _Kijak_ …’ He looked up, then translated, ‘Bramble. The challenge was the next day and he took the secret to the Inferno Mother.’ He paused and scratched his elbow. It had become such a familiar gesture by now.

Maegorn looked away. It was as though those claws were scraping against his heart.

He finished his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Were you and Bebukul there, at the challenge?’

‘Bebukul was only a baby and I… Zarbezahl hid me in his cupboard. To this day the smell of dried mangoes makes me sick.’ Rakhadar traced the edge of the book with the tip of a claw. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you with my family history,’ he said with a tight smile. ‘It’s quite bleak.’

‘Mine is not much better,’ Maegorn shrugged.

Rakhadar lifted his eyebrows. ‘You father was a hero with a Major Tag.’

‘Can you imagine how hard it is to follow? No matter what I do, I will never near his greatness. And with the war over, the best tag I can hope for is Basket-Weaver or Pig-Scratcher.’ He hoped Rakhadar would smile at this. He did.

‘We would have given you a good tag,’ he said. ‘It’s a pity we don’t have them.’

Maegorn gave a sigh. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t have them.’

They grinned at each other and went back to their food.

‘Did you have fun yesterday?’ Rakhadar asked.

‘We did. I nearly broke my neck chasing the firelings up the slope. But it was fun.’ Maegorn straightened, remembering something. ‘ _Jora-dere mora’akha_.’ He said the traditional congratulation proudly, in confident Firetongue – he had partaken in the ritual about a hundred times the previous night. The firelings took quite a laugh at his accent.

A piece of pepperpie froze in Rakhadar’s hand.

‘ _Jora-uro adi ap’kha_ ,’ he answered, blinking a few times before lowering his head for a kiss. 

Maegorn pressed his lips to the skin, hot and polished, like all firebloods’. He bent down just as Rakhadar was straightening and their foreheads knocked together. Maegorn winced – Rakhadar’s skull was marble, but then fiery lips were on the hurt spot and it felt better. The lips stayed longer than the etiquette required, and Maegorn let them. He welcomed their soothing warmth. His muscles relaxed, his chest filled with joyful little tingles. He kept still under the soft touch, inhaling the spicy smell. When did he start feeling so peaceful in Rakhadar’s presence?

‘It’s a shame you don’t swim,’ he said when Rakhadar had pulled away. ‘I liked it at the lake.’

Rakhadar watched him a few moments.

‘There is another lake,’ he said slowly. ‘A better one. And it’s only waist deep.’

‘How can it be better if it’s shallow?’

‘First, it’s not accessible on foot. You have to fly there.’

If Maegorn were a fireblood, his ears would have perked. ‘I’m listening.’

A tentative smile appeared on Rakhadar’s lips. ‘It’s not a long flight, so it doesn’t drain much fire, and the lake is secluded and beautiful,’ he said with more confidence. ‘Also, it bubbles.’

Before he knew it, Maegorn was on his feet. Rakhadar followed not a heartbeat later. Grabbing the blue hand, Maegorn pushed forward; his smile was wide, and his feet felt light as if he himself was able to fly, but his next step proved him wrong. He tripped over the voluminous skirt and tumbled face down on the floor, dragging Rakhadar with him. Rakhadar landed on top, grunting, slamming him into the cold stones, pinning him down with the hot heavy body, knocking all breath out of his chest.

Maegorn froze, stunned.

A scalding flash of lust shot through him, plastering him against the floor. His heart was pounding, and the wild thumps throbbed in his chest. He screwed up his eyes. Hot gasps rushed against is ear, igniting his skin as if Rakhadar spewed fire all over him. A different kind of fire. One that made the bottom of Maegorn's stomach clench with need. Maegorn took a ragged breath, and his lungs filled with the scent of Rakhadar, both foreign and familiar, and arousing like no elf’s ever had.

Maegorn stifled a moan. Why were the Spirits torturing him? The little tingles of attraction he had been feeling for the past few weeks had taken him by surprise, but he’d fought them like the loyal Frawvanna soldier he was. But this? This overwhelming overpowering mind-melting craving? How was he supposed to fight this? He was trapped. Incapacitated. Imprisoned. All he wanted was to taste the scalding lips, to run his hands along the burning skin, to roll his hips to encourage Rakhadar to move against him.

By the Spirits.

He pressed his sweaty forehead to the stones, panting.

The warmth and the weight abandoned him, and he gasped at the sudden cold. It was a full minute before he could gather his strength and sit up. He pressed a hand over his eyes, trying to settle his breathing.

Was Rakhadar feeling the same way?

‘Maegorn…’ came a soft whisper, the intonation not at all what he expected. It was anguished, as if Rakhadar was on the verge of tears. 

Maegorn looked up in worry, but Rakhadar wasn’t meeting his eyes. He was rubbing the skin around his elbows. Again, the nervous gesture felt familiar, as if Maegorn had seen it his whole life, not just the months he’d been living in Jorotaja.

‘I… I am sorry,’ Rakhadar said miserably.

Maegorn frowned. ‘For what?’

Rakhadar was silent for a bit, nearly clawing at the elbow. ‘For how I behaved on our wedding day,’ he finally said.

‘What?’

Rakhadar’s face twisted with pain. ‘I… I was a demon that night. However much you hate me for it, know that I hate myself more. I wish I could go back and burn my fingers off before I neared you.’ He dropped the sleeve, took a ragged breath and touched the tips of Maegorn’s fingers. ‘I’m not asking you to forgive me, as what I did is unforgivable – I will never forgive myself… But… is there anything I can do to atone for it? To make you feel better?’ Rakhadar looked at him pleadingly, his eyes wide and the pupils thinned to lines. ‘I will do anything.’

What was he talking about? Maegorn searched his mind for the memories of that night, but he had been drunk enough to remember almost nothing except for his talk with Pereliv.

_Pereliv…_

The name squeezed his heart with iron tongs, rushing his thoughts into a completely different direction. Panic flushed down his veins. It yanked him out of his own body, bursting the bubble around the castle, and lifted him up, to where the green sea of the jungle was well-visible and ever-present. Maegorn shuddered with guilt. What was he doing? Lusting after a demon, when back at home… _You have someone to return to…_ He did, didn’t he.

He looked down at where Rakhadar’s fingers were grazing his, even this minimal touch warming him all the way up to his shoulder. He craved for this touch. He longed for it.

He needed to stop it. 

‘Let me go,’ he said, his voice hollow.

The blue hand yanked away, taking the warmth with it. Maegorn already missed it.

Red eyes swimming with tears, Rakhadar nodded.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll let you go.’

Maegorn stood. Suddenly, he was very aware of the itchy alien clothing against his skin and the burning alien food in his stomach. Of his own smell – alien. Canine. Fear rushed him out of the hall, all the way to his cave, where he banged the door shut.

 _‘It’s just temporary,’_ Silveryn’s voice whispered into his ear, _‘when Faergol’s armada is repelled and the threat is over, you’ll come back. Don’t let them break you…’_

Silveryn had been wrong. Had they tried to break him, he’d have resisted – he wasn’t afraid of pain or torture. Instead, they’d lured him in with the soul-stirring drumming and the heart-melting jakothar cubs, Bebukul’s innocence and Kut’ha’s honesty, the thrill of battle and the magic of their fire. With Rakhadar’s awkward smile. Loving eyes. Fiery body. Maegorn had fallen into their trap and the worst thing – he’d enjoyed it. Even thinking about it made his heart beat faster. No, Le’unn had been right. The danger was not that he’d be broken, but that he’d become a dog. Willingly.

It wasn’t hard to do. They’d let him live a dream, free of duty, of shame, of fear. When was the last time he had thought about his actions in terms of tags?

Was there anything elven left of him?

Cursing, he tore off the alien clothes and changed into his tunic and leggings. He even braided his hair. It was a good thing he woke up before they got him completely entrapped. He was going to stop this nonsense. After all, this marriage wouldn’t be his burden forever. And when Faergol’s Armada was repelled, he would come back home. To Frawvanna. Because that was where his home was.

Would Rakhadar understand? He would probably guess they had been cheating him from the start. He’d be brokenhearted. How many times had Maegorn heard the whispered love confession when Rakhadar thought he couldn’t hear? _‘Karachu idha oro…’_ Maegorn hadn’t bothered to learn much Firetongue, but this he remembered. _You scorch my blood._ Damn it, he even remembered what he was supposed to say in return. ‘ _Chodah tharog ida o’_ – _my heart blazes for you._

He ran a hand over his eyes and cursed.

There were light steps outside his cave, accompanied by a sweet little whistle. When he opened the door, Irillion’s happy face beamed at him.

‘Good morning, my lord,’ Irillion said, his eyes bright and his lips stretched in a silly smile. ‘ _Jora-dere mora’akha_ ,’ he added in pretty good Firetongue.

‘I’m glad to see you, my friend.’

‘So am I, but this is not how you reply, you’re supposed to kiss my forehead and say—’

‘I know what I’m supposed to do.’ Maegorn cringed, sniffing at Irillion’s neck. ‘Did you even wash before coming here?’

Irillion’s eyes dropped to the floor, but his smile ruined the attempt to seem apologetic. ‘I didn’t want to keep you waiting, my lord, you were hungry.’

His satiated happiness prickled Maegorn in the stomach.

‘Making the best of our time here, huh?’ he said, trying to keep bitterness out of his voice. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts.’

Irillion’s face fell. ‘What do you mean, my lord?’

‘Have you forgotten it’s only temporary? We’ll be back home soon. To our families. To our friends.’

Irillion stared at him, his expression tightening.

‘I have no family back in Frawvanna,’ he said slowly, ‘and friends… I’ve made friends here...’

‘Ridiculous.’ Maegorn waved a dismissive hand. ‘You had a little tumble in the kitchen. You can’t be serious about mating with a dog.’

‘They’re not dogs.’

‘They sure breed like ones,’ he said, anger finally slipping out. ‘I hope you were careful. You don’t want a horned little elf running around—’

‘What if I do?’ Irillion said under his breath, but Maegorn heard him. Speechless, he looked at Irillion, really looked at him: the sleeves of his tunic had been cut off to accommodate him to the heat, his skin had grown extremely dark in the sun – not Maegorn’s shades of burnt leaves, but actual gorgeous darkest chocolate, and he smelled… he smelled of spice, he smelled of fire.

‘Irillion, when I go home, will you even come with me?’

Irillion’s answer was obvious even though he kept silent. And yet Maegorn refused to believe it.

‘What about Frawvanna?’ he demanded.

‘What about it? I love Frawvanna, but I also hate it.’ At Maegorn’s incredulous look, Irillion spoke faster. ‘What do I have back there, except a tag I loathe? War-Song. I was given it after I sang over my brother’s body and every time I hear my name I remember his dead eyes. I’ll spend half of my life trying to do something heroic to get a better tag, and then the other half trying to do nothing at all, to keep it. Here I am what I am, not a label. I can’t even remember the last time I worried about a tag. I can finally live – and there is so much life here: the drumming, the dancing, the food... It’s amazing. I’m telling you, my lord, if you ever gave it a try—’

‘I did,’ Maegorn said darkly, ‘and it nearly killed me.’

‘No, it made you alive. You’re just scared to admit it.’ Irillion stood a little more, waiting for Maegorn to say something, then walked towards the door. ‘Your breakfast is ready, my lord.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

When the door closed, Maegorn slumped down on the bed. His glance wondered along the twirls of birds and frangipani flowers on the wall until it fell on the crystal box on the table. He gave it a shake – the blinding purple light hit him and crept under his eyelids even as he squinted. He dimmed it to a soft glow and sat, caressing the sleek glass.

How much time he spent twisting the guiding light in his hands, he didn’t know, but he woke when heavy steps pounded the stones outside his door. Bebukul didn’t bother knocking.

‘Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me you aren’t leaving.’

Maegorn stood, alarmed. How did he know? ‘I’m not—’

‘Then what is all this?’ Bebukul demanded, pointing at Maegorn’s elven clothing and braided hair, and his chin quivered. ‘You can’t just leave,’ he yelped.

‘I never said I was.’

‘Then why is brother preparing your divorce papers?’

Maegorn’s stomach dropped. ‘Our what?’ What in the Spirits' name was happening? ‘Is Rakhadar breaking the deal?’

Bebukul cringed. ‘Of course he isn’t. He would never do something to upset you. But he said he had to _let you go_.’

Maegorn stood, too stunned to say anything, and Bebukul moved closer. His large red eyes were swimming with tears, but he wiped them with a fist.

‘What about the Young Fire regiment? Are you just leaving us?’

Maegorn wasn’t sure what to say, his thoughts jumbled and at war with his feelings. His departure was a certainty, but not today… Not like this. This was all too sudden. He was leaving too much behind. He wasn’t ready for such an instantaneous farewell. But then again… shouldn’t he be happy? Wasn’t this for the best? Going back home, away from the temptation he was too weak to fight?

He sighed with resignation.

‘I’ll write instructions and send you books,’ he said. ‘You will take turns teaching each other.’

Bebukul thought some more.

‘Bakoo-ra won’t come with you.’

‘You’re right. She won’t feel comfortable in the jungle.’

Bebukul swallowed a sob.

‘You can’t have your clothes,’ he said, waving at the golden skirt on the floor and darting his eyes around the room, ‘or the gem clasp… or the guiding light!’

Maegorn held out the crystal box. ‘I think it was my wedding gift, but sure, take it.’

Bebukul didn’t. Instead, he stopped holding back. Huge tears ran freely down the blue still childishly plump cheeks. 

‘Please… please don’t go,’ he said, wrapping his arms around Maegorn’s chest. ‘Whatever you need, we’ll get you: we’ll have elven food, we’ll get flowers… chairs!’

Maegorn completed the embrace. He pressed his lips very tight, but his mouth still quivered. Why was this tearing him into pieces? Hadn’t he been pretending all this time? Wasn’t their friendship supposed to be mere entertainment as he was waiting for the opportunity to escape?

It didn’t feel like this right now. It felt like he was saying a final farewell to his family. Again.

And yet it had to be done.

He swallowed past the scratching in his throat.

‘It’s not about something you can get—’

‘Then what? I’ll stop spitting, I’ll make uncle stop spitting, I’ll fly you around every day—’

‘Bebukul, it’s got nothing to do with you.’

The boy flinched.

‘It’s brother, isn’t it?’ He cursed at Maegorn’s silence. ‘Is it about your wedding night? What did he do? I heard him talk to Jasofrah – he said he’d behaved like a demon. But he didn’t mean to. Whatever he did, he hates himself for it, he is sorry. Tell him what to do to make it better.’

Maegorn shook his head. ‘I never held it against him.’

‘Then why? Why do you have to leave?’

Maegorn took a deep breath. Why did he?

‘Because I don’t fit in here,’ he said after a pause. ‘An elf has no place in Jorotaja. My home is Frawvanna. I’m too different from you.’

Bebukul stopped sobbing. He lifted his tear-stricken and snot-covered face.

‘What are you talking about? You’re a great fireblood. Certainly a better one than brother is.’

‘What?’

Bebukul grabbed Maegorn’s hand. ‘Come, I’ll show you something.’

Maegorn followed the boy out of the room, along the corridor, up and down a million steps, until there was a solid wall in front of them. Standing on tiptoes, Bebukul tapped five stones in a certain order; a piece of the wall slid to the side, opening into a dark windowless cave.

Bebukul took the guiding light – Maegorn forgot he was still holding it – and the room illuminated purple. It was small to begin with, but the items that filled it – furniture, books, art – turned it into a chipmunk burrow, a castle-worth of elven things, mismatched and random, cramped into a box of a room. Maegorn’s boots sank into the lush carpet, and he traced his fingers over treasured objects: the back of a mahogany armchair – silvery colibris embroidered over the silky seat; the delicate hand of a marble statue – Serell’s beloved, Ayerulis, waving her good-bye; the gilded handles of an exquisite pair of training swords.

‘Rakha’s secret room,’ Bebukul said, biting his claws. ‘You see?’

‘What am I supposed to see, nonni-un? What is all this?’

He stopped, staring at… himself. A very young Maegorn, much more handsome than in real life, smiled at him sweetly from an old canvas.

‘I never sat for this portrait,’ he said, frowning. ‘Who drew it?’

Bebukul wiped his wet cheeks. ‘He did. Long ago.’

Maegorn stared at the painting. At the razor-sharp outlines filled with color – the same style as the birds and the flowers on the walls of his room. Damn it.

Bebukul rushed past him. ‘Look, there’s more.’ He jerked open a small desk and paper spilled out. Pages and pages of sketches: the firebloods Maegorn knew – Zarbezahl, Apka, Bebukul, but also him, capturing him exactly – even the fact that one of his ears was slightly larger than the other, something that had accounted for him being Maegorn Lop-Ears for most of his childhood. Bebukul waved the papers in front of his face.

‘Rakha also says he doesn’t fit in here. He hates his fire. He can’t tell a carbuncle from a ruby. He loves _your_ music, _your_ drawings, _your_ books. Zarbezahl calls him an elf in a fireblood’s body. While you… You like the drums and the riding. You throw fireballs like no one I’ve ever seen. You look great in a skirt. Everyone said you’d be burnt by the sun, but your skin only gets darker. Uncle said Bakoo-ra would maul you, or the first demon would crush you to dust. But Bakoo-ra took you in, and the way you fight…’

Gingerly, Maegorn collected the scattered pages and stacked them in a pile. As he was hiding them back into the desk, he noticed a small bundle of yellowish papers. He pulled them out and their burnt edges crumbled under his touch. The letters Rakhadar’s father had died for? The ones sent to him by someone nicknamed Bramble? The ones that had made him say firebloods didn’t deserve love? Maegorn placed the bundle inside the desk.

‘It doesn’t change anything. I am still an elf and Rakhadar is still a fireblood.’ Bebukul opened his mouth to protest, so he cut him off, ‘The fact that he shows this to everyone—’

‘I told you it’s a secret room.’

‘And yet you know about it?’

‘I only know because I used to sneak in to play with the horny horse.’

Maegorn frowned. ‘The horny— oh, you mean the horned horse.’ He tilted his head. ‘What horned horse?’

Bebukul pulled something out of a velvet padded chest. Maegorn closed his eyes, but when he opened them, it was still there: an old, well-loved and well-patched stuffed toy, of dark purple cotton, one of its eyes the original blue button and the other – a blue gem. A single horn was protruding from its forehead.

‘It’s a unicorn,’ Maegorn said. ‘And his name is Rüneril.’

He looked into the chest and there they were: his old hunting knife, a toy archer he had carved when he had been an elfling, a ball Le’unn and he used to play with…

‘Where is your brother’s cave?’ he asked.

Bebukul’s eyes flashed from under the eyebrows. ‘He’s not there. He is in his study, preparing your divorce papers.’

Maegorn put the unicorn back into the chest. ‘Then lead me there, Bebu.’

Zarbezahl’s glance was pure hatred and it drilled him for so long, Maegorn wondered whether he was going to be let in at all. 

‘Zarbezahl,’ came a quiet voice from inside, and, reluctantly, Maegorn was granted entrance.

A spacious cave, its huge windows overlooking the Zest Bazaar, was scarcely furnished: a low table in the middle, a few cushions around it, dressers with books and basketfuls of scrolls.

Rakhadar didn’t lift his head from the documents he was signing. ‘Leave us,’ he said. Zarbezahl walked out, but not before one last hateful look in Maegorn’s direction.

Maegorn lowered on the cushion, watching the graceful movement of the black claw along the paper. It left a thin swirly outline of the royal signature, wide and elaborate, just like the petals of the flowers in his room. 

‘I… I apologize,’ Rakhadar said, his eyes pinned to the paper. ‘I should have done this on the morning after our wedding. I… was a coward.’ He wiped the ink off the claw and pointed at the document. ‘Here are two copies, one in Elvish, the other in Firetongue. You’ll need to sign your name here and—’

‘Show me your wrist.’

Rakhadar froze in panic, like a child caught misbehaving. His eyes shot to the side, lingering over the door, then returned to study the stretched fabric of his sleeve. He opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind.

Slowly, he pulled the sleeve up.

The scar – the same deep winding scar as Maegorn’s – twisted the blue skin, turning it black and glossy.

Rakhadar pushed the papers forward. He spoke quickly, as if he’d been rehearsing the speech. ‘Tomorrow you will be escorted back to Frawvanna. Of course, you can take whatever you wish, even though Bakoo-ra would have to stay, as her place is with her pack. It goes without saying, my promise to answer Silveryn’s call, should Faergol’s armada appear on your shores, still holds. So if you would just sign—’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? That it had been you?’

Rakhadar paused.

‘I… It wasn’t relevant.’

‘And yet you gave me a guiding light as a wedding present.’

‘The caves are dark, I thought you might be uncomfortable.’

Maegorn took Rakhadar’s hand and traced the scar with his fingers. The hand. The hand he had thought looked black because it had been nighttime. It appeared over the edge of the well just when little Maegorn had lost his voice begging for help.

‘Here, grab my hand!’ The voice was young, and it spoke funny – Elvish, but funny.

Maegorn jumped as high as he could, but the hand was unreachable.

‘I’ll come back,’ said the one above and disappeared. He did come back, as promised, slithering something down the wall – a rope. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t find anything else.’

Maegorn grabbed the rope and jerked his hand away – the rope had burnt him. A biting ivy.

‘Tie it around your wrist.’

It took them five attempts to pull Maegorn up – the walls were slippery and old, they crumbled under his feet and each time he tumbled back into the muck, but the one up there didn’t give up. And kept telling Maegorn not to.

On the sixth time, they did it. Maegorn’s hand was numb with pain, he was bruised and shivering with cold, but the sky was so close and the air in his lungs was fresh. The next thing he knew, father’s arms were around him, pressing tight, checking for injuries. Maegorn pushed him away and trailed the string of ivy – the other end was loose.

Now Maegorn stared at the dark hand.

‘I thought I’d imagined you.’

Rakhadar’s eyes were pinned to where Maegorn’s fingers brushed his scar.

‘And yet you came to talk to me and brought me presents for Amass.’

‘I did.’ Every few days he’d come to the same spot and tell his savior about his life – shared the things he’d learnt, complained about Le’unn or left little gifts, like a hunting knife, a toy archer, a ball… or a stuffed unicorn. ‘You never showed yourself, but sometimes I thought I heard you laugh.’

‘I tried to keep quiet, but your pranks were too good. The time you sent Le’unn a love letter in U’tron’s handwriting and she tried to kiss him in front of his lover – it was funny.’

‘As revenge, she covered my lute with jaggery syrup and by morning it was destroyed by termites.’

Rakhadar gave him a small knowing smile. ‘Le’unn Snot-Face.’

Maegorn chuckled. He studied the inside of the blue palm – it was lighter than the rest of the skin. ‘You were my best friend.’

‘You were mine.’ Rakhadar curled his fingers. ‘But then you stopped coming.’

‘Father said I needed to stop acting crazy, that you only existed in my imagination and I was a fool to invent a friend when I had real ones. He was so angry.’

‘It was because he’d seen me.’

‘He did?’

‘He caught me as I was waiting for you, shook me by the horns and said if I ever neared you again, he’d throw me into the poison bee hive. I came back the next day, but you were not there.’

The old guilt was scarping Maegorn’s heart. ‘I’m sorry.’

Rakhadar shrugged. ‘I thank you for leaving me that goodbye letter when they sent you to mainland to your aunt and cousin. I was devastated to find out you were leaving, but at least I knew you were safe. I hoped you’d come back one day. And you did.’

Rakhadar looked at him, red eyes wide and gentle and loving. Maegorn’s chest filled with something fuzzy and soft, like a childhood dream. He wasn’t ready to part with this feeling. Not yet. He had been promised time until Faergol’s armada was repelled and until that happened he was going to make use of this time here. Every damn minute.

Rakhadar tried to say something, but Maegorn moved his mouth so close, there was no room for words. He brushed his nose against the hot blue lips, and they parted in surprise. 

Maegorn moved even closer. A broken fiery puff of air caressed his face. He closed his eyes.

Kissing Rakhadar was like digging into a fresh meringue pie – very warm, very soft, and so delicious, your stomach trembled in happiness. Maegorn pushed down and Rakhadar sagged, presenting his face for the kiss but barely answering. With a soft rustle, the divorce papers fluttered from his fingers.

Maegorn pulled away and squinted at the bright midday sun.

‘See you at breakfast,’ he said and stood.


	13. Chapter 13

Rakhadar looked around the common hall. Judging by the tense haunted looks, only three were aware of the morning’s turmoil: Zarbezahl sat frowning and clicking his tongue, resentfully ignoring Maegorn; Bebukul, on the other hand, didn’t take his puffed eyes away from Maegorn, as if scared he would disappear; Irillion’s fake smile was so wide it was scary.

As for Maegorn, he was paying none of them any heed, mingling in the common hall, exchanging holiday greetings in proud Firetongue, kissing any willing foreheads and presenting his own without hesitation, moving with grace in his golden skirt, until finally he settled on a cushion next to Rakhadar – like it was the most natural thing to do. He also leaned to the side, their shoulders almost brushing, and Rakhadar straightened, increasing the distance. The memory of the kiss had been painful enough that he feared any contact.

The kiss. A blur of happiness and guilt. He should have been strong enough not to let it happen, even if through hurling himself out of the window. Instead, he had given in to his weakness and was now paying for it – with the tremor in his fingers, the pain in his heart and the wrenching of his stomach.

The kiss. He remembered little of it, except that, like a lightning, it had slashed his life in two: the before – the bleak existence in the shadow of the impending storm, and the after – the hollow trace that still tingled all over his body but was nothing but an empty memory.

He wrapped his arms around his stomach.

Joy and merriment reigned the room, firebloods feasting on the leftover food, which had only grown tastier overnight, sharing stories of yesterday’s debauchery and making plans for the year that was starting. Rakhadar was in no mood for any of that. He was sitting with a face so grim, no one dared approach him. Not even when the breakfast finished and the last of the firebloods left to continue the celebration: the first day of the year was _Rahagdja_ – family time. Not that the ak’Fjorn family ever celebrated it, mother and sister always riding off to supervise military camps; father hiding in his cave; uncle climbing the mountain, howling and searching for demons to fight; Bebukul preferring the company of Kut’ha and her fathers; and Rakhadar… each year he would lock himself up in his secret cave, drawing or weeping over the pages of ‘The Sky Tears’, and however much he wanted to do this now, as long as Maegorn was sitting by his side, his stubborn butt refused to move.

‘I’ve been wandering,’ Maegorn said as the doors closed after the last of the servers, ‘if there were a library of sorts in the castle.’

Rakhadar shifted on his cushion.

‘There is,’ he said. ‘Was there anything particular you wanted to read?’

‘Something easy. Children’s stories?’ 

Rakhadar look up in confusion. ‘You wish to read elven children’s stories?’

‘No, fireblood children’s stories.’ When Rakhadar failed to produce any more intelligent reaction than blinking, Maegorn explained, ‘I don’t know enough words for something advanced, but perhaps fairy-tales would be a good place to start learning the language?’

Rakhadar forced his mouth to work. ‘I-I’m sure Bebukul has some of our childhood story books.’

‘Excellent. Maybe with time I’ll learn enough that your courtiers won’t have to torture themselves with Elvish every time I’m near you. I swear I’ve seen them approach you and reconsider the moment they saw me close.’ He gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘Unless that’s what you want. Then we’ll keep my Firetongue knowledge a secret and when you need some peace and quiet you’ll give me a sign and I’ll be by your side, scaring them away.’

Peace and quiet? With Maegorn by his side? A good joke—

Cool fingers touched his forearm, and his breath caught. What was Maegorn doing? He turned to talk about his favorite fairy-tales, Firetongue writing system, the library cave – anything to distract Maegorn, and found the lips – the most irresistible lips that he had never imagined he would know the taste of – a breadth away from his. When they touched him, he nearly howled.

‘No,’ he begged, putting up a hand as a barrier, ‘please…’

Maegorn stared, brows drawn in a silent question.

‘You never have to do this, I promise…’ Rakhadar wrapped his arms over his wobbling stomach. ‘I’m disgusting to you, I know. It’s fine. I just… this is enough.’ He gave a jerky wave at the hall. ‘If you simply sit next to me at social events without much hatred in your eyes, this is all I’m asking. You don’t need to force yourself.’

He tried to flee but couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe. And then Maegorn looked straight at him.

‘You mean,’ he said, ‘I am to sit here with my legs numb, eat the food that turns my insides to coals, listen to Zarbezahl’s annoying tongue-clicking, and I don’t even get to _fry_ you?’

Rakhadar’s ears pressed to the sides of his head. He turned, half expecting to see a taunting ash ghost, but no, it was Maegorn. His smile was a challenge when he said, ‘Unless what you mean is that the idea of us in bed together disgusts you. Is that the case?’

Rakhadar shook his head, his confused thoughts bumping against each other inside his rapidly hollowing skull.

‘Good,’ Maegorn said. ‘Because I’ve been practising my hip-rolling, and I’m dying to see whether it could be applied to steering anything other than a jakothar.’

The sound that burst out of Rakhadar was a half-yelp, half-sob. Was being teased? But the brown eyes were kind, if a little mocking.

‘Now,’ Maegorn said, leaning in slightly, ‘if you feel like kissing me, I suggest that you hurry, as I can hear Bebukul down the corridor, and your brother is not one to wait after a knock.’

Rakhadar swallowed. This was implausible, even absurd. Maegorn, sitting in front of him, waiting to be kissed. By him. The only way for this to be true was if Maegorn had decided to abandon hope and put up with the grim fate of being Rakhadar’s husband. In this case, the best Rakhadar could do was to make Maegorn’s sacrifice worth it.

He closed his eyes and dove for the cool lips. They were a breath of fresh air on a stifling day, a cold lake in the wasteland, a dollop of snowcake after a fiery meal. They made his toes curl. He pressed into them, drowning—

Knock-knock.

It was an effort to pull away. But he did, just as the doors slammed open.

‘I want _Rahagdja_ ,’ Bebukul announced.

Maegorn looked up, giving his head a little shake, as if waking. ‘What?’

‘It’s _Rahagdja_ today, time to spend with family,’ Bebukul said, not exactly whining, but holding just on the verge, enough that any contradiction would result in a waterfall. ‘You two are my family, I want time with you.’ There was a blanket in his hands and a pouch that smelled of food. ‘You wanted to practice scaling up the mountain,’ he told Maegorn, ‘we’ll climb to tower 44 and have a picnic, and it will be beautiful and fun.’ He finished it like a challenge, no trace of impending fun in his voice.

‘I’d love that,’ Maegorn said, smiling.

Rakhadar licked his lips. ‘Give me two hours to deal with the post-celebration matters, and I’ll meet you in the kennels. ‘

He scrambled up and, after a quick look at Maegorn, moved to the door.

‘Bebu,’ he heard on his way out, ‘do you have any childhood story books I could borrow?’

As Rakhadar was making his way towards Zarbezahl’s study, his thoughts were panicky and muddled.


	14. Chapter 14

Maegorn had long given up on rolling his hips and instead concentrated on holding on to Bakoo-ra’s pelt – she was much better at choosing footholds in what looked to him like a solid cliff wall. Sweat prickled his eyes and the muscles of his arms trembled with pressure, but tumbling down would most certainly result in a broken neck – and Maegorn was hell-bent on tasting those meringue-pie lips at least once more before death – so he ground his teeth and persevered.

When they scrambled on top, he slumped down, catching breath, while Bakoo-ra stood sniffing the crisp air and snorting. Maegorn wobbled along the stony path to the wide edge of the cliff, where the fireblood brothers had already settled the blanket and treats and were waiting for him to conquer the damn cliff. Or plummet to his death. 

Bebukul’s lips and fingers were covered in pepper powder as he sat, shoving dried bananas into his mouth.

‘And here are the results of the race,’ he announced in an official tone. ‘Rakhadar ak’Fjorn is first – by cheating—’

‘You riding your jakothar into a pothole is not my cheating, Bebu—’

‘—the great Bebukul ak’Fjorn is first – by justice. And first from the end is Maegorn errr— Maegorn, what’s your tag now?’

‘Elven-Shame,’ he said, settling down between the brothers, ‘or, even more probably, Already-Forgotten.’

Bebukul crushed a snake fruit – skin, seeds and all – between his jaws.

‘If I were an elf, I would have the best tag. Bebukul Hero-… no, Awesome-…’ He paused the chewing and huffed. ‘It’s more difficult than I thought… What is the best elven tag?’

‘It’s called a Major Tag and it belongs to my father.’

‘And it is?’

Maegorn smoothed down his skirt. ‘Demon-Deathbringer.’

Bebukul snorted. ‘Elves don’t even fight demons— Oh.’ He rummaged the pouch for the spiciest banana slice. ‘It must be nice, having a father with the best tag.’

‘Nothing but torture.’

‘Why?’

Maegorn took a bite of an apple. ‘All you think about is how to best that.’

‘It’s good you don’t have a child then.’

‘What?’

‘If you only think of how to best your father, then your child would have to think of how to best you – it’s a… _aadhaar’ukta_?’

‘A vicious circle,’ Rakhadar supplied.

Maegorn sat, apple halfway to his mouth, until Bebukul shook him by the shoulder.

‘I say, is the tagging ceremony any fun?’

Maegorn put the apple down. ‘You kneel in front of your superior, he or she puts a hand on your forehead and says, ‘For this-and-this, we tag you such-and-such’. For a military tag, you get an ethelwel pin, and for a civilian, it’s a rhododendron. And if you like the tag, you praise the Spirits and hug everyone, and if you don’t – you go home and cry yourself to sleep.’

‘How can you not like a tag? Do elves give each other mean ones?’

‘Not openly, even though you can be officially tagged down. There are truly nasty tags – but these we leave for our enemies.’

Bebukul’s ears perked. ‘Like what?’

‘Like the mainland king that threatens us, he is Faergol Butt-Thorn.’

Bebukul burst out laughing. ‘Butt-Thorn,’ he giggled. ‘What else?’ A thought lighted his face. ‘Do you have tags for us?’

Maegorn looked away, his neck growing hot. He nibbled on the un-spiced dried banana.

‘Tags are stupid, nonni-un.’

‘Come on,’ Bebukul nudged Maegorn’s elbow, staining his sleeve with pepper powder. ‘Do you have a tag for me?’

‘You are too young to be an enemy.’

‘Alright, what is uncle’s tag?’

Maegorn stole a glance at Rakhadar, who, with a small smile, was scratching Aire’s muzzle, but whose ears were as perked as Bebukul’s.

Maegorn cleared his throat. ‘Slash-Face.’

Bebukul wasn’t impressed. ‘Zarbezahl’s?’

‘Coconut-Head.’

‘Better,’ Bebukul giggled. ‘Jasofrah’s?’

‘You’re too young, I’m not telling you.’

Rakhadar looked up. ‘Am I old enough?’

Ignoring Bebukul’s protests, Maegorn leaned towards Rakhadar’s flappy ear. It twitched at his whisper, smacking him softly across the lips. His chest hummed.

Hearing the tag, Rakhadar rolled his eyes. ‘I thought elves were above this,’ he chuckled. He did not hurry to pull his ear away.

Bebukul regarded them with narrowing eyes and crossed his arms on his chest.

‘What’s his tag?’ he jerked his chin at his brother.

Maegorn focused on peeling a sweet lime. The brothers watched him, then Rakhadar buried his face in his hands.

‘It’s about the chicken, isn’t it?’ he groaned.

Splitting the fruit, Maegorn offered a third to each fireblood. ‘Yep.’

‘What?’ Bebukul yapped. ‘What chicken?’

‘But it wasn’t—’ Rakhadar winced. ‘I was sure it was dead. I just wanted to move it away, I didn’t expect it would come alive and poop all over me.’

Bebukul roared with laughter. He fell to the ground, holding onto his stomach. ‘Rakhadar Chicken-Poop,’ he wheezed between fits of giggles. ‘Chicken-Poop.’

It was _Chicken-Shit_ , but Maegorn refrained from correcting.

‘Chicken-Poop!’ Bebukul reduced to snickers and jabbed his finger into Rakhadar’s chest.

‘Shut up,’ Rakhadar said with a dismissive wave, ‘Bebukul Piss-Pants.’

Laughter ceased. ‘Tags are stupid,’ Bebukul said, turning away with a pout.

They ate the rest of the food, and sat, the sun kissing their foreheads and the wind caressing their hair. Maegorn marveled at the feeling: the heat wasn’t exhausting him, and the air wasn’t drying his skin. His body must have acclimatized. And perhaps not just the body.

‘So the Butt-Thorn king, what does he want from you?’ Bebukul asked after he’d licked his fingers and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, smudging green spice across his cheek.

‘What does any conqueror want? Land, power, wealth. Frawvanna has always been a tasty morsel, and for a while Faergol extended his grace, promising us protection in case of attack, but over the years he has changed his mind and now we need protection against him.’

Bebukul scoffed. ‘He’ll be sorry he messed with someone who is protected by firebloods.’

Maegorn smiled weakly. The thought of a war between elves, whatever the reason, made him sick.

Rakhadar looked at him with sympathy. ‘This war doesn’t have to happen,’ he said softly. ‘There is still a chance Faergol can be reasoned with. Hopefully, Silveryn gets better soon and they’ll find a compromise.’

Bebukul looked up. ‘Your uncle is sick?’

‘My uncle is very old,’ Maegorn sighed. ‘Even for an elf.’

‘But… if the war comes… who will be in charge?’

Maegorn cleared his throat. ‘His heir,’ he said, looking away, and before Bebukul could press him any further, Rakhadar pointed at the setting sun.

‘Time to go back.’

The way down was easier – scarier, too, but faster. Back at the kennels, they fed the jakothar and moved towards the castle. Bebukul was skipping a few steps ahead, while Maegorn and Rakhadar walked side by side, their hands almost brushing.

‘I’ve been trying to read my first book, and there were a few words that gave me trouble,’ Maegorn said, turning to Rakhadar. ‘Would you mind helping?’

‘I’ll help!’ Bebukul faced them and was now skipping backwards.

‘Don’t you have your arithmetic class?’ Rakhadar asked.

‘It’s a holiday!’ Bebukul moaned. ‘Why does Master Hrogh have no family to spend Rahagdja with? I hate arithmetic.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’ll come right after.’

‘We’ll be waiting.’ Maegorn waved, as the boy headed for the other section of the castle.

‘Which story are you reading?’ Rakhadar asked when they were walking the dim corridor towards Maegorn’s cave.

Maegorn frowned. ‘The story about Ghutak Aru, is that right? I must confess, it’s quite scary.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A witch that lures children and steals their horns to stay young? Her house, made of haunted toys? An oven that sings a song about how it likes to grind bones?’

Rakhadar chuckled. ‘I guess it is scary.’ He stole a glance at Maegorn. ‘But your fairy-tales are no less disturbing.’

‘Yes, they are.’

‘What about Lerentina, who asks a monkey to teach her to jump, and the monkey tricks her into jumping into the ocean as a sacrifice to the shark-monster? I had nightmares about monkeys for days.’

‘It’s a cruel story, but it teaches elflings to stay away from monkeys. And sharks. What’s the moral of your story? Don’t trust ugly old ladies with worms for eyes and knives for teeth? Isn’t it obvious?’

‘The moral is what the old miner tells Ghutak: ‘Giving up is the only sure way to lose’. The witch goes to Ghutak’s village through a tube inside the mountain and he digs a side tunnel that diverts her way and leads her right into the ocean. So it ends well – it’s not the worst story we have.’

‘By the Spirits, what can be worse than eyeworms?’

‘There is one about a fireling whose mother gets sick, so he goes looking for a _ghirorachu_ – a fire jinn, a wish granter, with skin of liquid flame and heart of a burning coal. The boy catches one and rides it until it gives up, so he says his wish – that his mother walks again. What he doesn’t know is that by this time his mother has died.’

‘The jinn tricked him?’

‘Oh no. A ghirorachu is not evil, you just have to be ready for the consequences of your wishes. The fireling doesn’t know this, so when he comes home, his mother’s corpse is walking around the house, looking for flesh to feast on. She eats him and wanders off into the jungle, searching for lost children.’

‘This is horrible,’ Maegorn said, shaking his head. ‘And it’s considered a children’s story? I would never read this to my child—’ He cleared his throat. ‘I mean… I didn’t mean…’

Rakhadar gave him a long look. ‘I saw you got upset when Bebukul talked about a child. You would have made a great father, Maegorn. I’m sorry I can’t… we can’t…’ He chewed on his lip. ‘If you want, we could find a female, I mean, an elven female to give you a child. Sometimes firebloods do that. That’s what Zarbezahl and his husband did for Urtagu and Kut’ha.’

Ah. Maegorn had wondered about that.

‘Mainland elves do this, too,’ he said. ‘But no, I don’t want this.’ He rubbed the scar on his wrist. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you want a child?’

‘No, never,’ Rakhadar said resolutely. ‘That was my only condition when they voted me for a king – that I never have to bother with a child. Bebukul is my responsibility, and one of him is more than enough.’

Maegorn clasped his hands behind his back and studied the polished grey stones of the winding staircase. They climbed the stairs and when he lifted his eyes, he found he was being watched.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about children,’ Rakhadar said.

Running a hand over the guarding monster’s head at the entrance, Maegorn gave a small smile. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t talk at all.’ He opened the door.

Rakhadar went to the table by the window and picked up the book.

‘It used to be mine, too,’ he said. ‘So… which words don’t you—’

Maegorn pulled the book from his hands and tossed it aside. He leaned in – so close, he could rub his nose against Rakhadar’s. Which he did.

‘It was a trap,’ he said, moving to caress a flappy ear with his lips. ‘And you fell for it, Fireblood King.’

Rakhadar’s exhale was a low hum that was kindling to the fire at the bottom of Maegorn’s stomach. Maegorn smiled at the feeling. How could he be this acutely responsive to a fireblood? And yet, here he was, dizzy with excitement, struggling to keep himself from pouncing on Rakhadar.

Never had he felt a pull this strong. But it didn’t scare him anymore. It made him giddy.

He stopped fighting his desire and sank his teeth into the soft ear. It was better than he thought it would be. He nibbled on the trembling skin, unable to pull away. Rakhadar stood still, breathing loudly through the mouth. His bashfulness made Maegorn even hungrier.

He dragged his nose along the sleek jaw, then trailed the same path with his mouth. When he reached the meringue-pie lips, they met him, eagerly parting, pulling him into their soft heat. Maegorn’s heart was pounding and his fingertips yearned for more contact, but he kept perfectly still, savouring the gentle, almost timid touch, which alone threatened to undo him. He ran his hands along Rakhadar's arms. The blue skin warmed him even through the fabric.

He took hold of the wide shoulders and pushed until Rakhadar’s back bumped into the windowsill, then pressed against the hot body and rolled his hips. Rakhadar sucked in his breath, then carefully exhaled.

‘Akha ghirorachu-o,’ came a broken Firetongue whisper.

 _'You are my ghirorachu,'_ Maegorn translated in his head, then smiled, rubbing a blue cheek.

‘Do you have a wish that needs granting?’

Rakhadar’s eyes shot open. He nodded. Movements slow and deliberate, he switched places with Maegorn, propping him against the windowsill, then lowered to his knees and, keeping eye contact, unclasped Maegorn’s belt. He was looking up with caution, as if searching for signs of protest or discomfort. Maegorn had neither. All he felt was curiosity, mixed with a great deal of anticipation. He gave an encouraging smile, and Rakhadar continued. Soon Maegorn’s skirt was pulled down and his underpants were unlaced. Red eyes met his again - and again, he felt no fear. The soft caring touch had already excited him enough that it showed.

Rakhadar’s eyes darkened to somber crimson. They were sinfully beautiful, those eyes. Maegorn couldn’t look away.

‘May I?’ Rakhadar asked, his voice low and raspy.

Maegorn’s throat was too dry to speak, so he gave a hasty nod. Rakhadar’s exhale felt very warm against his exposed skin, making him shiver. Hot fingers wrapped around his shaft. They were even hotter than the breath, and Maegorn threw his head back with a hiss.

‘By the Spirits…’ he moaned.

Immediately, the fingers loosened around him. ‘Should I stop?’

Maegorn looked down into Rakhadar’s worried face.

‘Don’t you dare,’ he warned with a hungry smirk.

Rakhadar’s relief was palpable. His brow relaxed and his lips parted, his eyes grew heavy-lidded, his cheeks paled. Maegorn liked seeing him this way.

Rakhadar curled his fingers tighter and moved his fiery fist up and down, the strokes maddeningly slow and tormentingly shallow.

By the Spirits, was he trying to kill him?

Maegorn’s knees grew weak, and he leaned back for support. Needy little gasps were escaping him at each exhale, and he didn’t bother suppressing them, just in case Rakhadar needed more proof that he was enjoying it. And he was enjoying it - very much so.

Rakhadar stilled for a moment, his palm gripping Maegorn firmly at the base. Then,with a shaky breath, he pressed a sloppy opened-mouthed kiss to Maegorn’s skin, right above the fingers. That kiss was fire. It sent a fireball up the spine, making Maegorn twitch in the tight grasp. He moaned. Encouraged, Rakhadar kissed him more. And more. Unable to hold back, Maegorn rolled his hips to meet the incredible lips. Desire pulsed through him in shuddering waves. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He was melting like a snowcake left out in the sun.

The kisses moved up along his shaft. When Rakhadar reached the tip, he teased Maegorn with the hot tongue, and then swallowed him whole. Maegorn screwed up, grabbing the stone. The heat around him was too intense to discern between pain and pleasure. Hot-hot-hot!

All movement ceased. Rakhadar stilled, giving an opportunity to push away, but Maegorn didn’t. Instead, he held his breath, waiting for their heat levels to come to balance. This was like getting into a scalding hot bath: almost painful, almost unbearable, but, as your skin adapted, your body felt exciting and new, and all your senses heightened. Slowly, Maegorn relaxed and breathed. And then the heat engulfed more of him, and he yielded. Pleasure. It was definitely pleasure. Knee-buckling, growl-inducing, mind-blanking pleasure he had never felt before. He opened his mouth, gulping for air. He was losing control. The surge of arousal took him by storm, threatening to burst any moment. He pushed a warning hand against Rakhadar’s forehead.

The heat disappeared. Rakhadar scrambled to his feet. A panicked whisper rushed into Maegorn’s ear, ‘Does it hurt?’

Maegorn shook his head. ‘It’s too good,’ he said on the exhale. ‘Too good.’

There was a rumble – an animalistic growl coming from deep in Rakhadar’s chest.

‘I’m glad what I’m doing is to your liking, _churohi_.’

 _Churohi_. Maegorn knew the word now. A husband. Well, a spouse, as Firetongue didn’t have different words for a male and a female—

Fuck linguistics. Rakhadar was back to his knees.

‘Then use me for your pleasure,’ he said, taking Maegorn’s hands and placing them on his horns.

Maegorn swallowed. The hair at the back of his head stood and his palms covered with sweat. Well, if he was a wish granter, and this was a wish, how could he refuse?

Curling his fingers around the horns, he pulled them towards him. The heat traveled up and, steered by his pressure on the horns, down. Maegorn pressed his jaws tight. His chest was bursting. His insides throbbed. He groaned. _You scorch my blood_ – now he knew how it felt. His veins were boiling, incinerating his control, and his hands jerked faster, harder, guiding the wild heat as he liked it, pulling it to the limit, and it obeyed, caressing, rubbing, loving.

Alive. He felt so alive.

Scalding fingers grabbed his buttocks. He screwed up so hard, red splashes swirled behind his eyelids. The fire consumed him, starting in his groin and bursting in all directions and he roared, jerking the horns one more time, as deeply as he could, holding in place while the inferno inside him exploded in surges of all-consuming flames. He quickly let go, waking enough to worry about choking Rakhadar, but Rakhadar didn’t move, still impaled, and held him, drank him, drained him, until there was nothing, and Maegorn slumped forward, sliding out with a groan.

A sweaty forehead pressed to his thigh, the base of the horns firm against his stomach. Maegorn caressed the shaven temple, the ear, the jaw. When he could move, he leaned down and kissed Rakhadar on the mouth.

‘You’re a furnace,’ he breathed.

Rakhadar’s eyes glinted. ‘You’re a mint snowcake.’

‘Get up,’ Maegorn urged. ‘I’ll show you a mint snowcake.’

Rakhadar shook his head and propped his forehead back into Maegorn’s hip.

‘No need.’

Maegorn frowned. ‘I can’t let you go like this.’

There was a soft chuckle. ‘I’m not saying I don’t want to, I’m saying there’s no need.’

‘Oh.’ Maegorn pressed his fingers under Rakhadar’s chin, lifting his face, and kissed him again. ‘Want to use my bathroom?’

His answer was an embarrassed smile and pale cheeks.

When Rakhadar disappeared behind the door, Maegorn pulled off his top and, dressed only in underpants, flopped on the bed. The smile that was splitting his face in two was probably silly and he didn’t care.

The splashing and the banging finished, and Rakhadar emerged from the bathroom, damp and loose-haired. The unshaven locks reached his chin and were a sleek black veil that covered his eye. At last Maegorn caught a glimpse of little boy Rakhadar – the one who sneaked into the Lunalin forest to listen to the Elvish accent, the one who wished he could play together with the elflings, and most importantly, the one who was up to his sweet flappy ears in love with little boy Maegorn.

Awkwardly, Rakhadar neared the bed, but didn’t lie until Maegorn patted the space beside him. Rakhadar perched himself on the very edge. He was still fully clothed, so Maegorn rolled over to relieve him of the belt, the skirt, the sandals. When he took hold of the black top, Rakhadar held his hand.

‘You know that I know they’re there,’ Maegorn said. ‘I’ve seen them on Guabohr.’

‘They are disgusting.’

‘Show me.’

With a sigh, Rakhadar pulled the top off and let Maegorn inspect his arms, the spots above and below the elbows, where flat circles of grey bones protruded from the skin.

The spikes.

Alright, they were quite painful to watch, but not because the stumps of the spikes themselves were disgusting, but because they had been polished so hard into the skin that it was all bruised and bloodied, with scars and scratches, old and new. Maegorn smoothed the irritated skin, then probed the bony stump.

‘Not disgusting at all,’ he concluded. ‘Guabohr doesn’t even remove them, he doesn’t care that everybody sees them.’

‘Uncle doesn’t care about too many things.’

Rakhadar rolled on his stomach, propping one fist over the other and resting his chin on top. Maegorn settled next to him on his side.

‘How does he sleep with them? Doesn’t he tear his sheets every night?’

‘Uncle is an old-fashioned fireblood, he resents comfort.’

Maegorn smirked. He traced the blue bicep, outlined the shoulder and paused before sliding down the shoulder blade.

‘Where did you get these?’ He remembered king Rakhadar’s gravest injuries, but these thin silvery scars on the back were unfamiliar. ‘A demon?’

‘Mother,’ Rakhadar said. ‘So yes.’ He paused at Maegorn’s questioning glance. ‘When sister died, mother promoted me a captain and I led my first regiment to battle. And that’s when I saw you – you had just returned from mainland. I didn’t know what I was doing, I just ran after you, like an idiot, until we were surrounded. When mother paid my ransom and I returned home, she had me whipped.’

Maegorn closed his eyes. U’tron’s trap, which was also the battle when—

‘I killed your best friend in that battle,’ he moaned. ‘I’m sorry, Rakhadar, I’m so sorry.’

A hand caressed his hair.

‘It was war,’ Rakhadar said. ‘Urtagu and I – we weren’t even that close...’

Maegorn stared. ‘He is literally known as your best friend.’

‘Not like that… It’s a direct translation from Firetongue. _Makhumat dighi_ is _a best friend_ , but this is a euphemism for… a lover.’

‘Urtagu was your lover?’

‘We didn’t have time to properly become lovers. But we did... things.’

So not the best friend. A lover. Did it make things better? Or worse? Maegorn studied Rakhadar’s face for a trace of sadness and found none. He tried letting his guilt go. At least for now.

He gave his head a shake.

‘Alright,’ he said, ‘who was your best friend after Urtagu?’

Two red guiding lights blinked at him from behind the pillow.

‘No one.’

‘What?’

Maegorn looked over the curved lines of the huge muscled body in front of him and fell back on the bed.

‘What about that incredible thing back there?’ He waved at the windowsill.

Rakhadar paled even harder. ‘That’s the extent of my knowledge on the subject.’

Maegorn ran a hand over his face, then propped himself on an elbow and looked into Rakhadar’s eyes.

‘What would you say, your Blaze,’ he said, tracing his fingers along the edge of the blue ear, ‘about flying me to the bubbling lake you mentioned earlier, where we could properly fill the gaps in your education?’

Rakhadar’s ear trembled visibly under the touch. But his eyes, when he lifted them, had a bit of a twinkle.

‘I’d say I hope you’re not talking about teaching me to swim, as I have no interest in _that_.’

Maegorn chuckled. ‘No. I’m not talking about swimming. _Churohi_.’

With a bit of a broken breath, Rakhadar leaned forward, drowning him in the soft filling of that whipped meringue pie, and in a flash Maegorn ignited again, rolling over, pinning him to the bed. The hot hands were around him, pressing close, and he thrust his hips, tangling his fingers in the black hair—

Knock-knock.

It was probably the third or the fourth knock, as it bordered on banging. It was a good thing he’d locked the door. They pulled apart, panting. Maegorn looked about, as for the life of him he couldn’t understand where he was and why they’d stopped. His awareness of the universe had shrunk to those glistening lips, now puffed and bright blue, so he leaned towards them—

Knock-knock. Bang-bang-bang.

‘Open up, it’s not fair!’

Rakhadar looked up at him, his hair ruffled, his eyes unfocused, his breaths coming in warm puffs between his lips.

‘Maybe he’ll go away.’

They stilled, listening to the scattering that came from behind the door.

‘I know you’re there, I can see Rakha’s sandals.’

Their eyes flicked towards the heap of clothes on the floor.

Rakhadar winced. ‘I think I liked it better when he hated me.’

With a husky laugh, Maegorn unclasped his hands. They pulled on their clothes, Rakhadar worked a knot on his head.

The moment Maegorn opened the door, Bebukul’s frown turned into a grin.

‘Come with me. You too,’ he threw at Rakhadar, as he grabbed Maegorn’s hand and dragged him outside, all the way to the Zest Bazaar. It was empty, save for the eleven firelings, who stood in a tight group, chirping with excitement.

‘We have had our council,’ Bebukul announced, ‘and decided on your tag.’

Maegorn’s heart gave a thump.

Worry coiling in his stomach, he watched Bebukul stand on his toes and whisper into his brother’s ear. Rakhadar’s eyebrows shot up, and he nodded.

The firelings gathered in a circle, hushed and solemn, and at Bebukul’s curt gesture, Maegorn knelt. Rakhadar’s hot hand pressed to his forehead, fingers splayed across the hairline. It was but a play, a pretend ceremony that was not to be recorded in history books or bring him any official respect – or shame – but Maegorn’s palms grew sweaty and his knees were clamping up.

‘Maegorn Stone-Wall,’ Rakhadar said gravely, ‘it’s been almost a year that you’ve spent with us, sharing our joys and grieving our sorrows, fighting side by side with us and helping us protect our land.’

This was not how the speech was usually done, but Maegorn wouldn’t have interrupted, even if his throat hadn’t grown so dry, hardly a breath was squeezing through.

‘—And for everything you’ve done for us, for your inspiration and encouragement, for becoming a part of us, while also staying true to yourself – we tag you…’

Maegorn had stopped breathing altogether, looking up into those red smiling eyes.

‘…Maegorn Elven-Blaze.’

At his first tagging ceremony, Maegorn had cried. The second – not so much. The ones after that – he had nearly choked himself with the fear of being tagged down.

Now his heart danced in his chest and his eyes prickled with joy. He looked around the circle of red excited eyes.

‘I… I accept it humbly and promise to wear it with dignity.’

He said it in plain Elvish instead of old, and it came out even more sincere.

Kut’ha came forth and fastened a flower-shaped pin, fashioned out of a gem hair-clasp, to his black top.

The day after that was filled with _caves_. Maegorn climbed up and down stairs after stairs, dragging after the excited Young Fire Regiment who had all volunteered to show him the castle and its surroundings.

Through the day he’d seen them all: small caves and big ones, narrow ones and ones that could fit a whole fireblood regiment together with their jakothar; caves that glowed with the cloud of bugs festering the walls and ones that whispered with the swarm of bats nestling up on the ceiling; caves where the floor exploded with fountains of rot-smelling water and ones that collapsed deep enough to reveal glimpses of the ever-glowing orange eye; caves where the air was sweltering heat and ones where it was numbing cold; caves with giant icicles hanging down from the ceiling, caves with icicles growing up from the floor and caves where the ceiling and the floor icicles met in the middle. He saw caves where firebloods ate, worked and practiced drums, trained for battle, studied and prayed. He saw Leigh-ka Raat-Oj – Mother’s-Gift – a cave with mud baths that firebloods, contrary to logic, claimed had a cleansing effect; Tar-ra Razhke – A-Bark-That-Speaks – a cave where every bark bounced off the dark ruby walls and came back as gibberish that sounded suspiciously like Firetongue; Ek Chukra Hor – The-Pillars-Of-The-Mountain – a long twisted cave pierced through with massive crystal columns which grew in every direction and, when touched, tingled at different pitches; Ah-Gutak-Aru – a library cave decorated with drawings of the worm-eyed witch, the boy digging a tunnel to the ocean and the quote of ‘Giving up is a sure way to lose’. The last cave was Bhair Dekgug’e – The-Queen’s-Lair – Grundfjorn’s old throne room, that blinded with the dazzle of thousands of gems swirling along the walls in unique and tasteless incrustations of old battles, executions and – now that the room had been given to school needs – alphabet and arithmetic formulas. Above the entrance, large emerald letters spelled the first thing firelings learnt as they started school: ‘ _Joro nene he-ach’ha, joro ach’ho karaja_ ’. The fire doesn’t control you, you control the fire.

At that point Maegorn’s legs demanded a break and the firelings led him into a cave where the moss was soft for sitting and the milk-coloured lake was warm for swimming. As he was getting dry on the shore, he shared his tentative idea with his firelings and together they formed a plan that was voted on being implemented without delay. 

Under Razzogul’s avouchment, he was granted entrance into Be-hi Kazag-joro – The-Blazing-Light, a grand mine that specialized on excavating guiding lights. Cautiously, he stepped into a wide metallic cage, which level after level rattled down the brightly illuminated void, but no matter how low he descended, the mining shaft remained that – an earth and coal-smelling dry tube, not the muggy strangling pit of death. The memory of the well was now nothing but a childhood fright, swept away by a dark blue hand, so the dampness Maegorn was wiping off his brow with the folds of his skirt was of heat, not fear. As they clattered to a lower platform, Razzogul jumped into a monster of a digging machine and instructed Maegorn on the use of the dozens of levers, cogs and gears and after a few hours of sweating and cursing, they cleaved an impressive slab of grey rock off the wall and hacked it into smaller pieces to reveal not one, but two grey balls of coal that Razzogul swore contained guiding lights.

Unwillingly, Maegorn was allowed into the jewellers’ workshops, where, under the suspicious looks of gem masters, whose red eyes behind the magnifying crystals of spectroscopes seemed twice as large and a thousand times more disapproving, he sawed the first gem free of the coal coating and polished it, so when shaken, it turned into a sphere of orange sunlight. ‘Beginner's luck,’ Razzogul said, both amazed and jealous, when the second shell revealed a purple stone. It wasn't as large or as bright as Rakhadar’s wedding gift, but gorgeous nonetheless.

Lastly, long after the sun had set, he followed Kut’ha to Obhator Kutt – A-Cave-Without-The-Roof – a large circular room whose ceiling opened right into the sky, showing the old indigo canvas littered with the scattered sequins of stars, which, through this focused rock-framed lens, seemed new, almost merciful. Etched on the marble floor of the cave there was a celestial map of great detail and mastery, generations of fireblood star-readers adding their observations to this gigantic study of the Spirits’ heavenly dwelling. Directed to the spot of Urtagu’s unfinished work, Maegorn knelt by an empty socket, and, after coating one side of the orange gem with gum tree juice, installed it into the deepening. The stone barely fit, but once the gum hardened, it stayed put. That’s when Kut’ha showed him the secret of the room: the cave’s floor wasn’t connected to the walls – like a bowl of a giant scale, it was suspended on arm-thick chains, that soared towards the opening in the ceiling and were fastened outside. On the floor, each star was indicated by a dot of a sleeping guiding light and all it took Kut’ha was a pull of a lever – the floor swung gently, disturbing the gems and flashing up the map in a mesmerizing multi-coloured reflection of the sky.

Breath caught in Maegorn’s throat at this hand-made beauty. It was hard to describe the miracle he’d witnessed, but he did his best as he was writing his letter to Pereliv that night.


	15. Chapter 15

‘Do you have spare jasmine oil?’ Rakhadar twisted his neck back towards Jasofrah, as she was grinding the spike above his right elbow with a large abrasive stick.

‘I might have a bottle or two,’ she said, then, under her breath, ‘Don’t fidget,’ then, louder, ‘How many do you need?’

‘I don’t know—four.’ He said it too fast to fake being in doubt.

Jasofrah blew the dust off the circle of the bone and moved to a similar spot below the elbow. She ignored his soft request to peel more off the upper spike and kept working. ‘Why so many?’

Rakhadar shifted, but she steadied him with a raised eyebrow. He let out a small breath.

‘I’m taking Maegorn to Bud-bud-budu and I don’t want to reek of palm oil.’

She stretched her lips in a lewd smile. ‘Marriage life is picking up, huh?’ She put her thumb and index finger together and tapped them against her cheek in a dirty gesture. ‘I’ll see what I have left.’

She made him turn and got busy grinding at his left-side spikes.

‘Has he said the words yet?’

Rakhadar’s smile fell. ‘Why would he?’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ She rubbed the polishing side of the rod over the stubs. ‘You’ve been nothing but nice.’

‘Is that why you said the words to Ruhgar? Because he was nice?’

‘I said the words because he fried me so well, I howled.’

‘You told me his smile made your heart sing.’

She grimaced. ‘Well, yeah, that too.’

The grainy rod ran against the irritated edge of the skin and Rakhadar winced.

‘I can’t expect Maegorn to say the words…’

‘Why not?’ She looked up sternly before he opened his mouth, ‘And if you say firebloods don’t deserve love, I’m going to stick this up your ass.’ She branded her abrasive weapon.

Rakhadar swatted it out of his face.

‘He is already doing more than I could ever hope for. He’s fighting demons, training firelings, wearing a skirt… He waits for me after council meetings and we talk about the decisions I need to make – he gives sound advice. I’m thinking of inviting him on the council. I only worry uncle will be giving him a hard time.’

Jasofrah snorted. ‘I think he’ll be fine. I saw Guabohr try to bully him the other day. Maegorn called him _son of a motherless goat_. In Firetongue. I swear, Guabohr’s scar went so black, I thought he’d burst.’

‘You see? When he’s already doing so much, I can’t ask him to pretend he loves me.’

‘Why do you think he’ll need to pretend?’ She worked, waiting for his answer, then leaned in. ‘Huh?’

‘I don’t want that stick up my ass.’

‘Come on,’ she said, smacking him lightly on the horns. ‘What is it?’

He worried the hem of his skirt. ‘It’s... the letters.’

‘He’s still writing them?’

‘Every month. From Zarbezahl’s words, they only get longer.’

‘If they trouble you this much, read them.’

‘I can’t—’

‘Then stop worrying. You don’t know what’s in them. For all we know, he could be informing Silveryn about weaknesses in our defenses.’

Rakhadar chuckled mirthlessly. ‘That would be a relief.’

‘Well, maybe you could ask him?’ Armed with a tiny blade, she was now sheering the stubble off the sides of his head. ‘Now that the wedding night is behind you. Why don’t you ask him about that other elf—’

She jumped away as the orange sparks that had burst from the tips of Rakhadar’s fingers skipped on her skirt and started to smoke. Struggling to breathe, Rakhadar clenched his fists, pressed them to his chest and rocked to settle the spurt of fire in his stomach. Jasofrah’s intense whisper came to him like an echo in a cave, ‘The fire doesn’t control you, you control the fire’, but it wasn’t working. The flames were only getting stronger. She patted his pockets for a pouch of salt and poured the contents onto her palm. Rakhadar licked it clean. He screwed up, breathed, and slowly – slowly – calmed down.

He felt her studying glance as he flexed his fingers, making sure there were no sparks left. She wiped her hand at one of her breasts and continued trimming his temples and for a while they didn’t talk.

Jasofrah was one of the few who knew about the little present mother had left him. She knew, and yet, just like the others, she could never understand what it felt like – to know that at any given moment you could lose control of your body, in your mind reduce to a beast, turn into a demon. 

He kept sighing, and she didn’t stop him.

‘What if this happens when he’s with me?’

She stopped her work and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Remember, the fire doesn’t—’

‘I know, I know,’ he nodded. The phrase had been the last thing he’d been saying before going to sleep and the first one on waking up for as long as he remembered himself, and yet, since Maegorn had settled in Jorotaja, it had never worked. Rakhadar’s demon side was too strong. Or perhaps his fireblood side was too weak.

Jasofrah ran a hand over his temple – checking her work, but also soothing.

‘Anyway, you were right. Maegorn does seem to make an effort.’ When Rakhadar looked up from his misery, she said, ‘He came to Ruhgar yesterday for a drumming lesson.’

Rakhadar stared at her in alarm. ‘How did it go?’

‘Badly,’ she chuckled. ‘My husband is a flaming drummer and a smutty teacher. After two hours he yelled that apparently pointy ears impeded the sense of rhythm and threatened to spew fire if Maegorn ever touched his drums again.’

‘And Maegorn?’

‘Did his usual act of a bored ice demon – wriggled his eyebrows, flicked his hair and didn’t leave until he could beat a half-decent version of Hail to the Fire.’

Rakhadar gave a weak smile. ‘Sometimes I think he’s becoming too much of a fireblood. Last time I was telling Bebukul off for a burp – it turned out it had been Maegorn.’

Jasofrah studied him. ‘You’re fine with this?’

He scratched the freshly polished stump above his elbow.

‘My whole life I’ve been infatuated with the image I myself created. But now… I think I’m finally in love with the real him.’

She patted him on the shoulder.

‘In this case, taking him to Bud-bud-budu was a great idea. No one can resist the bubble love.’ Smiling crookedly, she repeated the dirty gesture. ‘Trust me.’

She observed her work, brushed the dust and the hairs off her skirt and packed the instruments into a wolfskin.

He put a hand over the bundle. ‘Will you leave these?’

She shook her head. ‘You will polish yourself raw again, and this is not how you want to go to the lake. The water’s salty and all the fun will be spoiled.’

With a grimace, he released his fingers.

She arranged his hair into a tight knot and spat on her palm to smooth it. ‘Just remember to take your time after you two… you know. Jasmine oil is not as strong, so you might have troubles making it back, with the elf on your shoulders—’

‘You and Maegorn are flying somewhere?’

Ashes. Rakhadar took a deep breath before turning to Bebukul.

‘This doesn’t concern you, Bebu.’

‘I want to go with you!’

‘We’re going to Bud-bud-budu…’

‘I love the bubbles, I want to go!’

‘It’s not like that—’

‘What’s not like what? You and Maegorn want to have fun in the lake, I want to join you.’

Rakhadar gave Jasofrah a panicked look, but she was unhelpful.

‘I’ll go fetch the oil and catch you on the way to the Zest Bazaar,’ she said with an it’s-your-brat-of-a-brother-you-deal-with-him kind of look.

Rakhadar braced himself. Bebukul trailed him all the way to the square, reasoning that he could use some flying practice and that the air at the lake was beneficial for health and that in case Rakhadar felt tired, he could help carry Maegorn home. All the arguments were delivered in a calm and logical manner and Rakhadar cursed. Maegorn was an incredible teacher. He kept walking, his annoyance growing by the moment, but when the tall pointy-eared silhouette became visible at the edge of the cliff, it evaporated.

Maegorn greeted him, then flicked a surprised look at Bebukul.

‘I want to go with you!’ the boy announced.

Rakhadar spread his palms helplessly and Maegorn crossed his arms on his chest.

‘Fireling, do you want to see your brother and me become best friends?’

He spoke Firetongue, something he’d been doing a lot lately. He made mistakes and his accent was funny, as if he were meowing words instead of barking them, but no one laughed.

Bebukul frowned, interpreting his question, then flinched.

‘Ew, no.’ He shuddered. ‘Now I never want to go to the bubbly lake. I’ll know that’s where you two...’

‘Better for us,’ Maegorn shrugged. ‘More time to become best friends there again and again and—’

‘ _Ash-ha, ash-ha_ ,’ Bebukul yelled, ‘stop!’ Squeezing his ears, he bolted black towards the castle.

Maegorn jerked his chin up. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

Jasofrah was approaching, bottles of oil flickering in her hand, and Rakhadar said, ‘I am.’

He chugged two bottles and tied the rest to his skirt.

‘Do you want me to go fast or slow?’ he asked, turning his back to Maegorn.

Cool arms wound around his shoulders. Soft lips rubbed against his ear. Maegorn’s whisper crept all the way down to his groin.

‘Why don’t we try both, and when we get to the lake, I’ll ask you the same question?’

Rakhadar’s knees wobbled and he struggled not to sway. He hooked his arms under Maegorn’s knees as they latched around his waist and took a deep breath.

In a rush of hot air, he launched.

Flying was truly a bother. His eyes prickled at the dry air, his ears popped when he lifted too high, his shoulders cramped up at the strain. Even though his mother’s gift let him recover faster and fly farther away from the mountain, he only did it when absolutely necessary, and even then took the shortest paths to reach his destination and stand on his feet again.

Not this time.

There was Maegorn behind him, and Rakhadar didn’t rush. True enough, jasmine oil was weaker than others, but the stunned loud breaths in his ear fueled him so hard, he could have reached the lake in a heartbeat. He didn’t. Instead, he showed off, changing speed and angle, surging up into the clouds until they were both wet and their breaths were frosty, or gliding close to the surface, letting the heat of the stones warm them. He hoped they would be coming back at night – he could fly Maegorn up, up, up, to where the head grew dizzy of the purest air and it seemed like any careless motion would swipe the stars off the welkin.

By the time they reached the place, he was a little huffed, but out of emotion rather than tiredness. He landed softly, right on the edge of the lake, and Maegorn slid off. For a few moments, he stood, panting and rubbing his knees.

‘How do you feel?’

Maegorn looked up, squinting at the sun. ‘I don’t know the words in either language to describe it.’

With a wistful smile, he looked around.

This was no spring, and the hero trees were covered with tiny turquoise leaves instead of the gentle mango-colored blossoms, but even in this dress, they were a welcoming sight among the stony grim garb of the mountain.

‘What are they?’ Maegorn asked, rubbing the soft leaves between his fingers.

‘We call them _buk-hu tab_ – hero trees.’

‘Heroes indeed, for holding in this furnace.’

A sweet shiver ran down Rakhadar’s spine. _Furnace_. The word he’d never encountered, so after Maegorn had called him that he ran off to look it up. Furrr-nace… Despite the brutal meaning, the word purred and rubbed when coming from Maegorn’s mouth and its very sound made Rakhadar want to drop to his fours and arch his back. He did neither. 

Maegorn knelt at the edge of the stone basin. ‘I was promised bubbles.’

The cerulean blue surface was deadly still.

‘Put your hand in.’

Maegorn did. He gave a small gasp as a collection of bubbles – the size of morning drew – rose from the bottom. They clung to his skin, moved to the surface and popped softly in the air.

‘Cute,’ Maegorn said, smiling at their tingling.

‘Cute?’ Rakhadar tilted his head. ‘Let me show you cute.’

Under the questioning look, he spread his arms wide and clapped. Low beastly rumbles came from deep under water and the bubbles the size of bird eggs raced upwards, colliding and exploding, splashing the water and creating a dozen different currents, bubbling and pushing into Maegorn’s hand. Bud-bud-bud-bud…

‘By the Spirits,’ Maegorn breathed when the water calmed. ‘This is the perfect place for what we came here for.’

The look he flicked up was hungry and… undressing. Rakhadar had noticed it a few times before and it always made him painfully aware of his ugliness. All he wanted was to cover himself. He tried to look away, but Maegorn beckoned him closer and the moment Rakhadar knelt by the water, he was pulled into a kiss – a kiss that made it very clear what they came here for.

His ears went cold. He was probably supposed to indicate his excitement, be more active, show Maegorn he was ready. He grabbed at his own belt and, fingers shaking, tossed it away. He broke the kiss to pull off his top, but got stuck – it tangled in his horns, incapacitating him. He grunted and jerked. The fabric ripped. Maegorn chuckled.

‘I’ll help,’ he said, rescuing him from the stuffy darkness and chuckled again at Rakhadar’s ruffled expression. ‘Hey,’ he added when Rakhadar grabbed at the skirt. ‘Are we in a hurry?’ Rakhadar paused and shook his head. Maegorn smiled. ‘Then why rush?’

Rakhadar was pulled into a new kiss, the not-in-a-hurry kiss that promised a slow death of unimaginable pleasure. He complied, mirroring its lazy leisurely pace, savouring the lips on lips and the tongue to tongue.

He was very aware when a hand landed on his ankle. It stayed there for a while, rubbing the skin, then moved, pulling up his skirt an inch at a time, and by the time it was in the vicinity of his knee, one finger sliding below the cotton of his breeches, smoke was bursting out of his ears. His mouth was released, but the wet soft lips were now sucking on his neck and he clenched his jaws not to groan.

He swayed. A strong arm wound around his shoulders, but instead of keeping him up, it lowered him to the ground, and he was pressed between the warm stone and the cool body, the contrast melting the last of his insecurities. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, and when no instructions came, brushed them through Maegorn’s thick silky hair, unfastening the knot and letting the dark tresses spill around their faces, the glistening veil covering them from the sun. He was so entranced by the soft locks sliding between his fingers that he didn’t notice when his skirt was pulled up around his waist and the laces of his breeches were undone – he bit his lip as the air brushed against his exposed skin.

Maegorn shifted away, fumbling with his own clothes and Rakhadar was left alone, gasping for breath. A mouth sought him out again, and he whimpered into it miserably – _more_ _touch_ , he pleaded, _come back_ – and his wish was granted, with surplus, when Maegorn’s bare hips drove into his, rubbing them against each other. A knee pushed his legs apart and wedged between his thighs, cool skin pressing all the way to his buttocks. Rakhadar arched his back. He was ready to burst.

Feeling his desperation, Maegorn rocked harder, taking both their shafts in a tight grip and moving his fist. Rakhadar grasped a handful of soft hair – he wouldn’t have been able to unclasp his fingers with tongs. He tucked his head into the crook of Maegorn’s neck, and the faster the fist moved, the louder he breathed, curt rumbles coming out on each exhale, until he growled, throwing his head back and shuddering at the release—

Some firebloods said flying was better than frying. Dimheads. Rakhadar would have given up his wings for this any day.

There were a few more jerky pulls on him, and then a sharp breath, as Maegorn went rigid by his side and then gradually relaxed, his mouth curling into a smile.

Their eyes met and, paling, Rakhadar tucked his head back into the safe harbor of the cool neck. There the smell was genuine Maegorn – jungle, strength, lust – and Rakhadar did what he’d dreamed of. He breathed. Until his head grew dizzy and his lungs filled to the brim. He breathed like it was his last chance before a deathly dive. Like he wanted to die with this smell inside of him.

It had never been like this. He couldn’t boast much experience, but however little friendship time he had, it couldn’t come close. Urtagu and he had got together on the grounds of too much curiosity and too few available partners. They were never in love. Urtagu said Rakhadar was too soft, and Rakhadar did his best to be an assertive best friend but was never sure it was enough. When they did things, it was pleasant, but always felt like a game, like practice, like he was doing things because he knew he was supposed to do them and he was enjoying things because he knew he was supposed to enjoy them. Things with Maegorn felt so real, it was almost scary.

Next to him, Maegorn shifted and stretched.

‘Now I want to get into the lake,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘Do you?’

There was nothing Rakhadar wanted more than to lie like this, in Maegorn’s hands, forever, but he nodded, pulling away to give room.

Maegorn crawled towards the edge of the lake. He wriggled out of the few items of clothing that still clung to his ankles and dunk underwater. He emerged a moment later, shaking his hair and spraying happy sprinkles in all directions.

‘This is amazing,’ he laughed.

Rakhadar dangled his feet in the water but didn’t hurry in – he had never learnt to swim and was cautious of the lakes, even the shallow ones.

Maegorn disappeared again, in a splash and a flash of naked butt. He surfaced at the edge, smiling at Rakhadar, then dove and reappeared at the opposite side. He was frolicking back and forth, his movements smooth and natural, the lake accepting him like a friend. This was his element: water, nature, life… not the dead stone Rakhadar had encased him in.

How long was it until the novelty of life in Jorotaja wore off and Maegorn started missing Frawvanna? Until he hated it so much he would pull out the divorce papers, already signed by Rakhadar, and write his name at the bottom? Rakhadar would never dare to hold him back. How do you hold back a drifting breeze that is brushing your hair? A new fire that is seeping through your fingers? A drop of rain that is disappearing in the midday sun?

Warm sprinkles hit his face. He cringed, wiping his cheeks, and met a careful look of the honey-colored eyes. Maegorn propped wet palms on his knees and pulled himself up.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘we don’t have to do it. If you’ve changed your mind – it’s fine.’

Had Rakhadar been brooding so much Maegorn thought he was showing cold feet?

‘No,’ he said with passion. ‘I want it.’ No matter how fleeting Maegorn’s interest was, he would be a dimhead to miss the opportunity to be fried. Rakhadar was not a dimhead. Well, perhaps just a smidgen, when Maegorn was looking at him like that – as if they were true best friends, and Maegorn couldn’t stop looking. As if he liked what he saw.

Rakhadar’s heart throbbed, and when Maegorn beckoned him in the water, he followed like a jakothar by a howl. He jumped off the edge and looked up, but Maegorn had disappeared. Rakhadar stood in the middle of the lake, waist deep, clasping his hands around himself, whipping his head left and right. Worried bubbles tickled the insides of his knees every time he turned.

‘Maegorn?’ He hated how his voice wavered.

Hands emerged from the water and grasped at his shoulder. Maegorn pulled himself up and pressed wet lips to his mouth. Rakhadar was too surprised to answer, and just as he leaned in to kiss back, Maegorn disappeared again. Everything went still.

Was Maegorn teasing him?

Rakhadar waited. Not a single ripple on the water –Maegorn’s glide along the bottom of the lake was seamless. But then the bubbles brewed on the other side of him, and this time he was ready. Bud-bud-bud—

Hands on his shoulder, lips on his mouth – he caught them, kissing back through a smile. Brown eyes flickered before plunging underwater again.

It was a fun game and Rakhadar guessed where Maegorn would appear most of the time, rewarded by a cool sloppy kiss, until the moment Maegorn disappeared for longer. There was no trace of him, no disturbance, or ripples, or bubbles. Rakhadar peered into the water and then –

Cool skin pressed to him from behind, he felt it all – from the chest pressing to his shoulder blades to Maegorn’s length sliding along his buttocks. A mouth sucked on his neck, and he sagged, reclining against the strong body.

Arms sneaked around his waist, swiped higher and paused at the rings in his nipples. They teased and played with him until he squirmed, his skin covering with goose bumps.

One hand took him by the jaw and twisted until he turned enough for a kiss, while the other traveled lower, down to where the fire was raging in his groin.

His chest rumbled.

He was nudged towards a spot by the stone wall.

‘Watch your step,’ came the whisper as Rakhadar’s toes touched a wide flat rock that rose higher than others. When he stepped on it the water only reached his shins.

Oh, so that was what Maegorn had been doing, splashing around in the water, darting from edge to edge – he was choosing the right spot to… to…

Rakhadar swallowed. By the Inferno Mother, they were going to do this. He was about to be fried for the first time in his life.

He breathed, placing his palms on the stones. A mouth was exploring his jaw, while soft hands where on his back – caressing, smoothing, kneading. There was a slight push on his shoulders – gentle, but firm – and he listened, bending in the waist and lowering his chest on the edge of the stone basin. He folded his arms and tucked his head into the crook of his elbow. His knees tensed.

Kisses trailed down his spine. As they progressed, he expected them to cease and braced for the initial pain – he knew the basics. But the kisses never stopped. Lips moved lower and lower until they were at his entrance, but even this didn’t faze them. Rakhadar’s mouth fell open, but he forgot to breathe – he was a bundle of nerves that were plucked at, the feathery licks and touches reverberating through his entire body. Had Maegorn not given him release earlier, he would have been long done by now.

Soon there was more than just the lips – the tongue, and later the fingers, and not a single moment of pain. Only pleasure. So much of it, it threatened to burst him. He felt sleek and stretched and so relaxed, he wouldn’t have been able to move, had a portal opened right in front of them.

Then all touch ceased.

‘Are you ready?’

Rakhadar didn’t know if he was. His body throbbed, and he wanted it over, and at the same time he wanted it to never end. He didn’t dare beg, so he just whimpered a shaking _yes_ , drooling into his elbow and clutching at the stones. There was a bit of fumbling – the smell of jasmine oil – the nudge. He went very still. Maegorn felt thick inside of him. And cool. He was being breached slowly – so slowly, he managed to take a few wheezing breaths before the hips touched his buttocks. But oh the feeling was flaming.

Lips lapped at his ear. ‘You want me to move?’

He swallowed. _‘Haa_ ,’ was all he could squeeze from his throat.

The first thrusts were nothing but soft caresses. They chipped pieces off him one nudge at a time. His claws stuck out and drew back on their own, in sync with the movements.

‘You think we could kneel?’

There was gentle pressure on his shoulders. He let the hands guide him down, sinking to his knees. Now the water was just below their navels. There came the first earnest thrust and at the same time the sound of a skin-on-skin slap. Bud-bud-bud-bud... The bubbles surrounded them, bursting against their skin. The bastards sneaked in everywhere. Everywhere. Rakhadar exhaled. He propped his hands up against the stone wall and leaned forward, giving Maegorn a better angle. There were gentle caresses along his sides, his back, the nape of his head – and then another thrust. And a slap. And more. Rakhadar’s head bobbed, hair flapping against his face, horns scraping at the rocks. His mouth was hanging open and the muscles of his stomach were wrenched in a knot.

And then Maegorn grabbed him by the horns and pulled.

Rakhadar’s head jerked back and his body arched in a half circle. A gasp tore his chest.

By the Inferno Mother.

Maegorn moved in him freely, sliding in and out in a wide swing and every time his hips drove into Rakhadar’s buttocks, there was a distinct slap that unsettled the smutty bubbles and they sloshed, rubbing him, driving him into the state of fiery frenzy that commandeered his body and his mind. Without warning, it raged and wrecked him, orange haze blocking his eyesight, blood thumping in his ears, and he howled. He was supposed to constrain things like that, but there was no way he could do it, not today. His chest emptied, and with it, his whole body – never had he felt so hollow. And so happy at the emptiness.

His horns were released, and everything stilled. Then there were kisses on his shoulder, neck, ear. 

Slowly, he unclasped his hands off the wall – his claws were scraped where they’d been grinding the stone. Maegorn slid out, brushed a hand, cleaning him, but this raised the smutty bubbles. He was so raw, they hurt. His knees, cramped and bruised, complained as he scrambled up. Maegorn pulled him up on the shore and settled him on the skirts.

The sun was on the decline, a pulsing red disc in the evening haze which quickly dried his skin. Rakhadar stared at it, and when he closed his eyes, he could still see it. He wished he could remember Maegorn like that. Right there, in his mind’s eye, forever.

Fingers brushed against his eyelashes. Maegorn was lying on his side, cheek propped on a hand, studying him.

‘How are you feeling?’

Rakhadar wetted his lips.

‘There are no words in either language to describe it.’

He was rewarded with a smile. A smile that was just his. Not Irillion’s. Or U’tron’s. Or Bebukul’s. His.

With the back of his hand, Maegorn was grazing along his cheekbone, up the temple, towards the horns. He curled his fingers around one and rubbed at the texture.

‘How do they feel?’ he asked.

‘They feel fine.’

A chuckle. ‘No, I mean… In a more general sense. How do they _feel_?’

Rakhadar concentrated on feeling his horns.

‘Touch your teeth.’ He watched Maegorn poke a finger between his lips. ‘Close enough. Not as strong as touching skin, but not as faint as touching hair.’

‘But it’s pleasant when I pull at them?’

Rakhadar swallowed as an echo of desire shot though him.

‘It is.’

By the Inferno Mother. Never had he needed three releases in such a short time, not even when he was at Bebukul’s age. But with Maegorn lying so naked and smiling next to him, it wasn’t long before he would be again at the ready.

‘How is your reading?’ he asked to distract himself from the memory of Maegorn’s fingers jerking his head back.

Maegorn stretched on the skirt, the muscles of his strong body taking turns tensing and relaxing. ‘Good. I’m on my fifth book.’

‘Any words giving you trouble?’

‘Not the ones in the stories. Something I hear a lot… _dgadgahi_?’

‘Oh yes, it’s a well-used word. A curse. Not too strong, something close to _damn_ or _bloody_. Means smutty.’

Maegorn tried the word on his tongue a few times. ‘Is _erdegru_ also a curse? Guabohr called me this.’

‘No. _Erdegru_ is… a frangipani.’

Maegorn snorted.

They lay still, warming their bodies in the setting sun.

‘You want to know my favourite word in Firetongue?’ Maegorn asked.

‘You have a favourite word?’

Maegorn cleared his throat and took a breath. _‘Khraktu_.’ He looked up at Rakhadar’s laughter. ‘I’m not joking – it’s my favourite word and I think we are idiots for not having a term for something that is both good and beautiful. A beauty inside and out.’

‘I’m sure an Elvish word for it would have been more melodious than _khraktu_.’

A sigh. ‘I bet it would.’

Rakhadar tensed at the wistfulness in Maegorn’s voice. He moved his hand to brush the long brown fingers.

‘Do you miss Frawvanna?’

There was silence.

‘Of course, I miss it.’

‘Your family?’

‘Yes.’

‘What else?’

More silence.

‘I miss… the smell of acacia in the morning, the distant crushing of the waves, I miss my tree, the cry of the piha—’

‘The who?’

‘The piha. A little grey bird that nests up in my teak.’ Maegorn made a whistle, a familiar vibrating melody, like a worried kwee-kwee-o, that Rakhadar had heard in the jungle but never singled out. ‘There is also a bellbird that favors a neighboring tree,’ Maegorn said, ‘and it goes—’ This time the whistle was sharp, metallic and irreproducible.

Rakhadar smiled. ‘I can’t even imagine how you do this.’

‘You don’t whistle?’

‘I tried, but… I guess you need an Elven teacher…’

‘You just got yourself an Elven teacher.’

Maegorn rolled to the side, and the eyes – amber at the center of the iris and buckwheat honey at the edge – were so kind and attentive, it hurt. Rakhadar ached with the words of love, and yet he didn’t say them. _You scorch my blood…_ Hearing nothing back would have broken him. When he had no hope, it used to be fine – whispering the phrase, knowing there would be silence in return; but now that there was a tiny, teeny-weeny, treacherous little spark of hope shimmering in the darkest corner of his heart, he became a coward. So he simply smiled.

‘You know what else I miss?’ Maegorn propped himself up, pushing Rakhadar’s shoulders till he was flat on his back. ‘U’tron’s food.’

‘U’tron cooks?’

‘He makes the meanest meringue pie.’ Maegorn’s voice was deep and hungry, and his eyes for some reason didn’t leave Rakhadar’s lips. ‘The meringue topping is warm and soft, and the filling is pure whipped coconut cream.’ He licked his lips. ‘But I can get the taste of the meringue topping right now.’

Maegorn leaned down and devoured his mouth. Pressed a hand under his jaw, pulling tight, swiped a thumb against his cheek, and just when Rakhadar lifted a hand to press him closer, broke the kiss. He smiled, brown eyes drunk and unfocused. ‘And I think if I work really hard,’ he said, ‘I can get the taste of the cream filling.’

Rakhadar frowned, but when Maegorn crawled down to his hips, he gasped. Maegorn chuckled.

‘To be fair, this is long overdue.’ He flicked his eyes up. ‘I must finally have a good look at what kind of scimitar you are hiding down there. From what I’ve peeked, it is more than impressive and has all the potential to beat Irillion’s.’

A wave of heat washed over Rakhadar. ‘How do you know about Irillion’s… _schmuhg_?’

His panic must have reflected in his voice, as Maegorn lifted his head. 

‘I promise you, it’s nothing,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be honest. A couple of times, Irillion and I, we—’

And then his voice disappeared. Or perhaps it was Rakhadar’s ears that stopped hearing, deafened by the surge of rage that pierced him from head to toe. Flames burst from his fingers and he scrambled away. _The fire doesn’t control you, you control the fire. The fire doesn’t control you… it doesn’t…_ No use. The phrase wasn’t working – and the salt pouch in his pocket was empty. His palms were aflame, and the rocks went scaling hot under his touch.

Stop it, stop, stop! Put it out, you, demon, don’t you dare—

Next thing he knew, his head was underwater, salt eating away his tears, and he drank-drank-drank until his lungs were crumbling and his stomach was bursting. He pulled his head out. Gasped. Choked. Barfed. Then drank some more. He screwed up, and in front of his eyes were elves – all of them beautiful with their shiny hair, their gorgeous eyes, their apparently massive cocks, all of them smiling at Maegorn and playing with him. And Maegorn was always smiling back. Rakhadar was there, too – small and ugly, hiding in the bushes; in his dreams he was with them, but in truth he knew he would never be.

When his insides were numb and leaden, he crawled away. He stumbled to his feet and reached down for his clothes.

‘I’ll fly you home,’ he rasped.

‘Rakha—’

‘Don’t,’ he winced. ‘Please don’t say anything now. I’m very tired and I don’t want to drop you.’

Maegorn looked at him darkly.

‘Fine. But we’ll talk when we get there.’

Silence separating them like a wall of biting ivy, they dressed and stood at the edge of the cliff. Rakhadar drank the rest of the oil, and it sunk to the bottom of his stomach, slimy and rancid. He chose the shortest path to the castle. He breathed hard, his guts so dry, there was hardly a spark. Maegorn weighed ten times more than on their way there, and his hands around Rakhadar’s shoulders were pliers of ice. A gust of wind hit his side and he swayed, grunting at the turbulence. There was another blow, crushing into him from a different direction, and then another. It happened a few more times before he realized: the wind was not growing stronger – he was getting weaker. Every muscle in him shuddered. He couldn’t feel his ears. 

A look ahead at the market square made him grind his teeth. He was not going to make it. Not with Maegorn on his back.

Just like after their wedding in the mountain, he gathered the crumbs of his fire and bolted forward, trying to reach the landing in a single surge. Only this time it wasn’t enough. The fluttering torches, the wide grey stones, the caskets of coals – they were so close, so close, and then they were getting smaller again – he was falling in a dizzying spiral, clutching at Maegorn’s legs, unable to stop the earth from rushing towards them at a terrifying speed. His body was a drawn cord moments before rupture. He screwed up, took a breath, and howled. His cry came out stifled and broken, but it was heard. A shadow flashed to his left and he angled towards it. A fireblood-sized bat, Jasofrah glided across the sky, intercepting their path and yanking Maegorn by the scruff of the neck like a kitten.

Rakhadar felt weightless. Exhausted, aching, lonely and cold, but unburdened. He liked it better this way.

In a few jerky launches, he reached the landing and dropped on it face down, ragged breaths rattling his lungs. Fiery hands cupped his cheeks and gently lowered his head on the lap. Warm, familiar lap. Zarbezahl.

‘Eat, fireling.’

His jaws could barely crack the offered coal.

A mass of cold neared him. ‘Rakhadar—’

He flinched. ‘Please don’t touch…’

‘Just let me—’

There came a snarl, ‘He said don’t touch.’ Guabohr.

What were they all doing here?

‘Your Blaze.’ Zarbezahl’s voice was soft, just like when he was telling him to hide in the cupboard until the challenge between his parents was over. ‘A letter arrived from Frawvanna. Faergol’s armada is on its way.’

Well, wasn’t this the perfect ending.

‘Uncle, Jasofrah, take your regiments and set for the jungle. Maegorn, you are in charge of my regiment in my absence.’

‘Rakhadar—’

‘I’ll join you as soon as I feel better. Go.’

He tried sitting up, but his muscles didn’t obey him. He waited until Maegorn moved away.

‘Zarbezahl,’ he whispered. ‘Make sure Irillion is out of Jorotaja by the time I wake up, get him out of my—’

He had forgotten about the elven hearing.

‘Rakhadar, listen! It’s not Irillion’s fault, I beg you—’ Cold was reaching out to him again, and he pressed into Zarbezahl. Hot hands wrapped around him, shielding.

Another snarl, ‘King gave you an order!’ And a roar, ‘Get out!’

From behind Zarbezahl’s embrace, Rakhadar sent a panicked look at Jasofrah and she understood. She took Maegorn’s elbow and dragged him away.

The cold disappeared and Rakhadar’s shoulders slumped.

There came Bebukul’s sheepish voice, ‘What about me?’

Rakhadar reached out blindly, grabbing at his collar and jerking it down, until Bebukul’s ear was over his mouth.

‘You and your Young Fire regiment go there and guard him with your smutty lives, is this clear?’

Bebukul pulled away to see if he was joking, but Rakhadar’s face was so dark, he believed.

‘I will,’ he nodded hastily and jumped to his feet. ‘We will!’

When Bebukul was gone, Zarbezahl leaned down to speak softly in his ear. The gentle soothing voice he used only for the worst news.

‘There was another letter, addressed to Maegorn, hidden among the elven food delivery.’ He ran a hand down Rakhadar’s shoulder. ‘It reminded Maegorn that after the battle is won, there will be no need for the demons’ help, and he will be free to become king Silveryn’s heir… It said, the marriage wasn’t going to be his burden anymore. It contained a marriage annulment document.’

‘Ash-tossers!’ Guabohr roared. ‘I told you the pointy-ears were treacherous worms. Rakha, call this back. You can’t send our army to help them, not after this.’

Rakhadar didn’t say anything and Guabohr exploded in a new roar. ‘You can order me as much as you want – I’m not moving a finger to help the filthy traitors. My regiment stays.’

Rakhadar let out a long breath. He wanted to cry, but inside he was a sponge left out in the sun for a day. He burrowed further into the cozy warmth of Zarbezahl’s belly and closed his eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

Jasofrah was freakishly strong. Maegorn wriggled out of her grasp only when they were inside the castle.

‘Let me talk to him.’

He set to push his way through, but she blocked his path. ‘You don’t see he has no mood to talk?’

‘But he’s going to punish Irillion and it’s not his—’

‘He is not punishing Irillion, he’s protecting him.’

‘From what?’

‘From what he is afraid he’ll do when his fire is back. Rakhadar tries hard to keep his fire, but when he goes off, he does it hard. He _is_ Grundfjorn’s son.’

The protests died on Maegorn’s lips.

‘What happened?’ Jasofrah asked. ‘The bubbly lake –everything was good, no?’

He clenched his teeth. ‘It was.’

‘Then what? You told him you fried Irillion or something?’

Maegorn ran a hand over his eyes, then turned away.

‘Oh, _bloorf_.’ She smacked a palm at her forehead. ‘Why Rakhadar says you’re smart? You are a _dgadgahi schmuhg_.’

Maegorn had already guessed what _schmuhg_ meant.

‘Why did he get upset?’ he exasperated. ‘Irillion and I… There is nothing between us, it was just… comradery.’

‘You elves are sick.’ She spat on the ground. For a moment he thought she was challenging him, but no, she was just frustrated. ‘You love Rakhadar?’

Her question was a bludgeon on the head. He flinched.

‘I… I…’

‘You ever tell him?’

‘I… I…’

She gave a magnificent eye-roll.

‘Rakhadar thinks he doesn’t deserve love. Prove him otherwise.’

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Maybe he was a _dgadgahi schmuhg._

‘Let’s go,’ Jasofrah said, ‘we are setting for Frawvanna in three hours.’

Three hours later Maegorn was ready, clad in a brand-new steel vest and a golden skirt, hair done up in a knot, hand resting on Bakoo-ra’s withers, Rakhadar’s regiment crowding behind him.

He turned towards the castle. Would he ever come back?

His heart twisted, as if a demon was crushing it in its jaws.

Perhaps once he became king, he and Rakhadar could smooth over the animosity between elves and firebloods? Bring real peace to the island? And then, perhaps, during some official visits, Maegorn could talk to Bebukul? Perhaps he would be allowed to see Bakoo-ra? And perhaps, with time, when— well, _if_ Rakhadar forgave him, they could be… friends? That would be enough, wouldn’t it?

Maegorn turned away, blinking against the prickling in his eyes. At a wild drum roll he mounted Bakoo-ra and, after a final look at the castle, charged towards the leafy sea of the jungle far down and ahead. The border was drawing closer and his heart squeezed when the distant jungle aromas rushed into his nostrils – damp moss, tree bark, blooming acacia – it was almost a year since he’d last smelled them.

He felt the elven sentries rather than heard or saw them. His greeting whistle carried across the clearing and was answered immediately. There came three piha-like whistles and he jumped off, signing for the army to halt. With dramatic drumming and barking the firebloods stopped in front of the first line of trees. Jasofrah stood by his side as he scanned the treetops.

‘Salute to commander,’ he said, bumping a fist into his chest.

There was a soft thump and a moment later U’tron was standing in front of him.

Maegorn tensed under the long assessing look. Many would disapprove of his appearance now. Le’unn would call him a dog, mother would probably denounce him, elves would whisper and laugh behind his back. He didn’t care. But would his old friend turn away from him, just like the others?

U’tron’s eye slid over the skirt, the vest, the knot of the hair. After a long silence, he lifted an eyebrow.

‘Shouldn’t you be more tanned?’

Maegorn would have hugged him, but instead he just shook his hand.

‘I’ve been living in a cave,’ he said, smiling.

Firebloods set their war camp closer to the beach and after a brief council Maegorn was commanded to head for the royal chambers.

The grand chengael tree stood proudly in the thicket of the jungle, its massive trunk as wide as ten regular trees, its bark black and scaly, its foliage so dense, sun-rays barely seeped through to illuminate the luxurious rooms build on the branches. Maegorn paused on the bottom step of the wide permanent staircase, adjusting his clothes and running a hand over the hair knot.

Le’unn was sitting on the buttress root, crumbling a dead leaf in her hands, and she jumped up at his approach – it wasn’t hard to guess what he had been called to discuss.

‘You look like a dog,’ she said as he was passing.

He didn’t look her way.

‘I am August-Defender now,’ he threw into his back.

Of course she was.

A solemn figure was meeting him by the entrance, just as stiff and threatening as the uglie that guarded his door in Jorotaja.

‘Adviser.’ He gave his mother a nod.

‘General.’

Her usually impassive face cringed at his outfit and for once he was happy she preferred not to waste words on him. He trailed her inside the room and at her gesture knelt by the bed.

‘Your Grace?’ he whispered.

Never particularly earthy, Silveryn was now a ghost. The intricate web of veins shone a sick white through the clammy skin and his eyes barely focused. But there was recognition at the bottom of those violets.

‘My boy,’ he whispered, ‘my boy…’

A hand pressed to Maegorn’s cheek, but didn’t hold, simply brushed and slid back on the sheet.

‘I’m here, your Grace.’

A quivering smile. ‘You’re here...’

At his wave, Miluris held out a piece of parchment. In the sea of meaningless titles and nauseating grandiloquence he fished for the key words – _appoint_ , _heir_ , _Maegorn_. He finished reading and only then remembered he didn’t register his new tag. He looked for it among the useless blabber. It was written so close to his name, the letters jammed and squeaked. Married-Away. It was no August-Defender but it was good enough. In fact, it was good enough to stick with his name forever. He didn’t mind. Because deep in his heart he knew he already had a tag. One that no mistakes or titles could change. Chosen for him by his chosen family. Elven-Blaze. _That_ what he truly was. _That_ what he wanted to stay.

His mother cleared her throat, hinting at the impropriety of his silence.

‘This is an honour, your Grace,’ he said, rolling the decree and handing it back. ‘Yet I cannot accept it.’

The room grew even quieter.

‘Maegorn—’

‘You have a worthy heir, uncle. Frawvanna needs a strong and level-headed leader, and you can’t deny Le’unn is strong: she’s been tagged up a dozen times, she’s defeated Grundfjorn, she’s helped end the war. Sure, her temper is volatile, but… Your Grace, what happened on mainland made me grow up, and I believe the same fate awaits Le’unn. She might be rash now but once you show her she has your trust, that she has responsibility – she’ll mature. She’ll calm down.’ He pressed his hand to Silveryn’s wrist and met the disbelief in the watery eyes. ‘Ruling Frawvanna is her dream and her right, and I’m not taking these away.’

Without looking up at his mother, he walked out of the bedroom, but the rustling at his heels notified him it was not over.

‘Maegorn.’

He kept walking. ‘I know, mother, I know. Father wouldn’t have approved of this.’

‘You’re right, he wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘But I do.’

He slammed into an invisible wall. Facing his mother, he stared: for once the ice of her blue eyes had melted.

‘Your father wanted you to be a hero, Maegorn. I just wanted you to be a decent elf.’ He moved towards her, but she stepped back, smoothing down her robes. ‘It’s a shame you had to go live with dogs to find your integrity.’ Her eyes steeled again. ‘Are you absolutely positive you have to be wearing this?’ She motioned at his top. ‘It’s quite… revealing.’

He chuckled and blinked away the emotion.

‘I’m afraid I am, mothe— adviser,’ he corrected himself, as he heard Le’unn climbing the stairs towards them, two steps at a time.

‘I’ll go draw the new decree,’ Miluris said, leaving. ‘Don’t scratch each other’s eyes out. We need both of you to win this battle. The armada might be here by tomorrow morning.’

Le’unn stopped in front of him, panting, and the insignia ethelwels on her chest clanked softly against each other at every breath.

‘You…’ she started, trying to calm down, ‘you didn’t sign the decree?’

‘I didn’t.’

She pressed her lips tightly before speaking again.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I want to see you fail.’

He tried to leave but she blocked his path.

‘Why. not?’

He looked above her head, at the tree tops swaying peacefully against the bluest sky. For a moment, he stood, filling his lungs with the familiar dampness of the grass-smelling air.

‘Because I told you, I never wanted this. It’s your destiny, not mine.’

How long were they going to delay the only meeting he yearned for? His heart was already there, a few trees away, and yet everyone was going out of their way to prevent his body from catching up.

He took a step down, but she wasn’t letting go.

‘Are you going back to dogland then?’

‘I am.’ He paused. ‘Although… there is a chance Rakhadar won’t want me back.’

‘He finally saw you were a piece of shit?’

He laughed bitterly. ‘Apparently he did.’

‘Took him long enough.’

Fidgeting with the sleeve, he looked back. ‘Am I?’ he asked, and for once his voice wasn’t filled with scorn. ‘Am I a piece of shit, really?’

Le’unn’s look was puzzled. ‘Of course, you are.’

He was making his way downstairs, when he heard, ‘Remember the time the royal seal got lost?’ She waited for him to turn. ‘It was me.’

‘What—’

‘I lost it.’ She ran a hand over her ethelwels. ‘But you thought it was U’tron, who was just a captain at the time and the blunder would have lost him his career, so… you took the blame.’ Her words were tight, as if they didn’t really want to leave her throat. ‘You’re not _all_ shit.’

With a sad smile, he rubbed the skin on his wrist. He would have said something, but he didn’t want to waste any more time.

Pereliv was waiting.


	17. Chapter 17

Rakhadar arrived at the border in the morning of the second day. He still felt a little weak, so every now and then he reached into the satchel at his belt and munched on a piece of coal. His fire was slowly reviving.

Met by two elven sentries, he was guided along a snaky path through the jungle, and a while ago his heart would have been skipping with joy – he was in the heart of the forest, lungs full of frangipani and orchids, boots sinking into the mossy root-webbed velvet, ears picking up on the cheerful chirping of paradise birds – now he was barely paying attention. He walked, grunting at the swampy reek of rotting bark, the malicious roots grabbing at his skirt, the nasty dirt staining his sandals, the vociferous squawking assaulting his ears. He pushed another coal between his teeth.

The elven guides were a few steps ahead, casting cautious glances at Aire. The jakothar was trotting softly along the forest floor, ears glued to the back of the head, the pelt on his withers standing erect, chest rumbling at the alien smells, sounds and movement. Rakhadar put a calming hand between his ears.

‘Calm down, my friend,’ he murmured. ‘I’m just as sick of being here, but I promise it’ll be over soon.’

 _It’ll be over soon_ was the only thing that made him move forward. Like the classes of gem lore when he was a fireling, the ones he hated the most, but the ones he ran to the fastest: once they were over, he could go back to books and drawing and music – to his usual life. Once this battle was over, he would go back to his usual life, too. His usual, humdrum, tedious, grey pathetic life. Perfect.

His sandals bore into the turf with sickening chomping.

The tented roofs of the fireblood war camp were looming behind the patch of overgrown crock fern and blackberry bushes, when a lion-like figure – strong, proud, crowned with a mane of auburn hair – crossed his path, bowing, but never taking the only eye off him.

‘Welcome to Frawvanna, your Blaze.’

Rakhadar put his shoulders back and straightened but was still a breadth shorter than the smutty elf.

‘Commander.’

U’tron’s eye darted over to the sentries and they disappeared in the foliage like a morning mist.

‘On behalf of Frawvanna, may I express our gratitude for your army coming to our aid in the moment of need.’

‘I gave a promise, didn’t I? Did you expect me not to come through?’

The elf was studying him as if he were a curious bug.

‘We never doubted your word, your Blaze, and yet your timely arrival gives us courage, and for this we are grateful.’

Ash-tosser. How much did he know? He was Maegorn’s friend after all. Rakhadar studied the stern face, but perhaps it was the one eye thing or the commander’s habit – U’tron’s expression was unreadable.

‘The united war council is to be held in two hours and will be announced by the trumpeters,’ the elf said. ‘We expect Faergol’s ships to appear by dawn. In the meantime, should you wish to get updates from your generals, I’d be happy to escort you to the fireblood camp.’

 _Fireblood_. Not _demon_ camp. So the catching up had taken place. Did he know all the shameful details? Was he laughing at him behind his back?

‘I’ll find my way around.’

The bright blue eye bounced and the bright lips twitched, as if wanting to say something, but then U’tron bowed and with a soft ‘See you at the council, your Blaze’, walked away.

Rakhadar lead Aire through the shrubbery and they entered the camp of grey tents.

‘Rakha!’

Shooting towards him, the fiery missile of Bebukul tripped on a root and Rakhadar caught him, barely preventing a dramatic flop face down into the mud. His zest unhitched, the boy straightened, his smile wide enough to fit a pepperpie and his eyes darting about with a glint of one who’d sneaked into a pantry and couldn’t choose what to devour first.

‘Rakha, all this is,’ he flapped his hands up at the elven tree homes, to his right at the plantations, to his left towards the ocean, ‘flaming!’

‘Lead me to Jasofrah,’ Rakhadar said over a piece of coal.

As they navigated through the camp, Bebukul didn’t shut up for a breath.

‘I mean, the food here is stupid – U’tron let me try a tangy gooey white pie and it didn’t go down well – but everything else… I love the jungle. And the beach. And all the elves are so beautiful,’ he chattered. ‘Our Maegorn is the best, of course, but they all have this… hair, and… the eyes, and they are all different colours. And all the elves smile, Rakha, they always smile. Although Maegorn says they don’t always mean their smiles, but it’s so pretty. There is one that never smiles at me, though. He is oh so flaming, he’s like the sun.’ Rakhadar choked on the thick bitter lump of coal dust, and Bebukul patted him on the back, but didn’t stop talking. ‘That one is nasty, too. Calls me a dog. Also, he’s a bur that clings to Maegorn – we haven’t had a word without the hawk watching like he’s about to snap my horn off.’

Every word was a nail hammered under Rakhadar’s claws. He wiped the black slime off his lips and picked up the pace. He needed to see Jasofrah before he did something demonic.

Oblivious to his torment, Bebukul went on, ‘I wanted to make friends, so I came to him in the morning and said, _‘Your hair is like sunrise in the mountains.’_ I swear, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever said. And he was, _‘Don’t you dare look at me, you mangy dog.’_ That’s when my stomach decided it didn’t like U’tron’s pie, so I threw up all over the elf. Some of it got on Maegorn too—’

‘Where is Maegorn now?’

‘Oh, he went to his tree. With Pereliv.’

Rakhadar stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Pereliv?’

Bebukul flinched at the intensity in his voice.

‘The sunny elf…’

Rakhadar’s ears went flaming hot. ‘Is this how you guard him?’ he growled.

‘I didn’t know we were supposed to guard him from Frawvanna elves…’

With a scowl, Rakhadar turned back. He stormed through the jungle – he knew the way. Embers of fury sparked at his fingertips and he didn’t force them away.

‘…just say it, say you like it there and you don’t want to come back!’ was what Rakhadar heard when he froze by the familiar teak.

‘It’s not that simple, Pereliv.’

‘Of course, it’s simple. After the battle we don’t need them anymore. Divorce the dog—’

‘Don’t call him that.’ A sigh. ‘I’m sorry I can’t—’

‘Then take me with you!’

‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘I’m strong now. Ask U’tron. I’ll survive in dogland. We’ll pretend I’m your servant… or your cook – the dog is stupid, he’ll never guess who we are to each other – I’ll be anything. Please, I can’t stay here without you anymore.’

‘Pereliv…’

‘Please…’

Sobbing. Kisses. Soft rustles.

‘You are very strong, Pereliv. My beautiful hero. My sun, my joy, my happiness. You make my life worth living. But I can’t take you with me. Not now. Maybe a little later—’

‘You say it in every letter! I’m tired of _a little later_. I want to go now. I can survive in dogland. I’ll prove to you.’

‘Pereliv, you don’t need to—’

‘You’ll see how strong I am.’

‘Pereliv!’

Rustling. Stomping. Scraping.

Rakhadar slid behind the trunk, as the lithe golden-pelted squirrel skipped down in a few fluid movements. When the elf landed, Rakhadar swept him in a crushing hold – one hand across the chest, the other – covering the mouth and rushed flying through the trees… Flying? By the Inferno Mother, yes, he was flying and hadn’t noticed until now… Fire raging in his chest, he dragged the limp body halfway to the fireblood camp, making sure they were out of Maegorn’s earshot. The pathetic excuse of an elf didn’t even put up a fight, his lanky arms and legs dangling like young branches – thin and just as breakable. 

When they were far enough, Rakhadar threw him into a blackberry bush, and he lay where he landed, prickles scratching the silky cheeks, only the eyes – of piercing light blue, wide and unblinking, drilled Rakhadar like the horns of an ice demon. Rakhadar took a step forward and something creaked under his sandal, something that had fallen out of the elf’s grasp, something shiny and purple… the guiding light. Maegorn’s wedding present. The guiding light, looking for which Rakhadar had ascended so deep into the crater, his skin bubbled and melted, and yet here it was now, in the hands of this filthy ash-tosser, who meant for Maegorn more than Rakhadar could ever hope to. A howl was tearing his chest, but he swallowed it, directing his rage into the fire shooting through his fingers.

He squatted in front of the trembling form. Vehement thoughts raced in his mind, short and violent, mostly threats and curses, anything longer than a few words disappeared before he could finish it. 

A groundworm. A smutty fireless dung beetle. A thief.

‘You,’ he growled, jerking the elf up until their faces were near, ‘a worthless piece of ash. How dare you put your hands on what’s mine.’ 

‘He’s not yours, you, horned assbadger. What right do you have to take him away?’

A sickly hand grabbed his wrist and jerked away – Rakhadar’s skin must have been fire by now. He ground his teeth to refrain from breathing flames. The thin neck was so close, the skin smooth and flawless. The trembling lips, so full and child-like. The delicate nose. The butterfly wings of eyelashes. The dazzling gold of the hair. His mother would have burnt it all in an instant. But Rakhadar wasn’t his mother, was he?

He closed his fingers tighter.

‘You’ll never see him again. Never, you hear? You’ll rot in this swamp alone. You’ll die knowing he’s mine forever.’

‘Then do it, dog.’ The large eyes filled with tears. ‘Kill me. Isn’t this why you brought me here? Kill me. But he will always love me more. The love that binds us – you can never understand, because you’re an animal.’ The tears trembled and spilled. The elf chocked on a sob and cried, ‘You don’t deserve love!’

With a slap of a whip, the haze over Rakhadar’s eyes lifted. He looked into those beautiful eyes and, indeed, saw love. So much love for Maegorn that it could probably compete with his. These two had been in love long before he came and forced Maegorn away. What right did he have to begrudge them of their happiness? To be jealous? To show his fire?

Yes, he deserved this elf’s hatred. And no, he didn’t deserve Maegorn’s love. Slowly, his rage ceased. His mind sobered. His claws drew in. He wasn’t his mother. He wasn’t.

_The fire doesn’t control me, I control the fire._

Unclasping his hands, he willed the fire away. It died, before he even focused. It listened. He stood, leaving the sobbing elf in the bush, and, hiding the guiding light in his pocket, staggered back into the jungle. He wandered for a while, until even the tips of his ears cooled down, and that’s when he heard Maegorn’s call. 

‘Rakhadar!’ Maegorn was walking towards him, smiling. Elves didn’t always mean their smiles. Now even Bebukul knew that.

He wiped his cheeks before facing Maegorn. With a dull pulling in his heart he noted the elven outfit – the tunic and leggings and the boots that Maegorn was wearing. The brown hair was still tied up in a knot, but it wasn’t long before it was braided.

‘How do you fare?’ Maegorn asked, trying to meet his eyes.

Rakhadar cleared his throat. ‘Fine.’ He did. Now that he had made up his mind, he felt lighter.

‘Please let me explain,’ Maegorn said hurriedly, ‘about Irillion…’

A flash of fire washed over Rakhadar, but he willed it away. He was calm in an instant.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to say anything.’

‘No, listen…’ Maegorn put a hand on top of his. ‘Irillion and I… there is nothing between us, I swear. What I feel towards you… it’s different. The ones before you are no more than funny anecdotes of my past, among the times I jumped from a sequoia over a bet and broke my arm, or chased Le’unn into a swamp, or peed into Silveryn’s favorite vase. I treasure them, they’ve made me who I am, but they are my past. While you are the present and… the only future I want.’

Rakhadar would have cried, had he not known better. But he did know better. So his eyes stayed dry.

‘And how do you see this future, o esteemed heir of King Silveryn? Two kings paying official visits once a year?’

Maegorn’s lips tightened. His hand slipped off Rakhadar’s forearm. When he looked up, his face was remorseful.

‘Look, it was Silveryn’s idea, and I never really agreed to it. I didn’t wanted to deceive you, but Silveryn lured me in with a Major tag and I… I never had a chance to say no.’ He leaned closer. ‘Until today.’

‘Until today?’

Maegorn pressed a hand to his again.

‘I refused to sign the decree. I didn’t want that throne to begin with, and now more than ever. I don’t want it to stand between us.’ He stood closer, the curve of his lips so beautiful. ‘I don’t want anything to stand between us.’

Rakhadar wished he could command his heart just as easily as he was now commanding his fire. Instead, the pounding in his chest was nearly shaking him. Every pore of his body was aching to believe Maegorn, to burn the doubts and sweep the ashes away, but a stubborn little part of him refused.

With control of his fire, had he also discovered some of his pride?

Maegorn stood, waiting for his reaction, looking into his eyes with… hope? Was he hoping Rakhadar would never find out there was someone else? Rakhadar's mouth went dry, the flames in his stomach creeping up, licking the back of his throat. He put them out by a jerk of his head.

‘So you don’t know anything else that is standing between us?’ he asked, his voice coarse and scratchy.

All he wanted was honesty. He deserved that.

But Maegorn only frowned. ‘I don’t.’

Rakhadar’s eyes prickled with hurt. He clenched his fists. Why was Maegorn lying? Was he scared Rakhadar would go back on his word? Was he protecting his lover from a demon? Either version showed how little Maegorn thought of him. 

‘Then I do.’ Out of a pocket, he produced a roll of papers: the marriage annulment he’d already signed. He had meant to throw the papers into Maegorn’s face, demand an explanation… or fall to his knees and beg Maegorn to stay; all he did now was hold them out. ‘Sign them at your convenience, now or after the battle. This will not make me go back on my word either way.’

Maegorn stared at the papers without touching them. At last he looked up, and his glance was leaden.

‘Why?’

Rakhadar put the documents into Maegorn’s hand.

‘This marriage was a burden for both of us. It’s not anymore.’ He smiled. He was a fast learner, and he’d learnt to put up a fake smile. ‘I hope you get the Major Tag you’ve always wanted.’

The armada appeared two hours later, just as they were at the council headed by Le’unn – Rakhadar half-expected Maegorn to be in charge as the newly-appointed heir – and at the violent trumpeting and drumming they all jumped up.

Purple flags punctuated the horizon. Enormous ships, swan-like and graceful, were packed so tight, they hid the skyline. Their sails were white, with Faergol Butt-Thorn’s crest – a swirly prickly stem crowned with a dark pome – in the centre. It was three more hours before the ships dropped anchor and another three before the long boats reached the shore.

Clad in steel and war scythes at the ready, the fireblood army spread across the jungle, waiting for the Frawvanna archers to engage first. The elven soldiers hiding in the foliage above their heads were bothering Rakhadar – a part of him still waited for the pointy-ears to switch sides, but at the same time, knowing that hundreds of deadly well-aiming grasshoppers were going to fight with him, not against him, made his heart beat faster.

One such grasshopper was sitting atop the jakothar right beside him. Rakhadar had tried to send Maegorn away to his kin, but Maegorn had argued that while Rakhadar was going to fight for Frawvanna no matter what, some firebloods, like Guabohr, could choose to leave, should they find out the marriage, and technically, the deal, was no longer valid.

That’s why Maegorn was now at his side, face drawn, shoulders forward, hands clasped at the dark pelt – he’d trained into a flaming rider – and watching him from the corner of his eye, Rakhadar couldn’t but wonder what could happen after the battle. What was to happen between the two of them was clear, but in more general terms – the elves and the firebloods – could this have changed their relationship? So far, elves had been treating them with pronounced politeness – not once had he heard a _demon_ thrown their way, and firebloods paid back in kind. Of course, there were those who limited their exchanges to grunts and curses, but there were those like Bebukul, who mingled with ease, let elves pet their jakothar and climbed up the trees for friendly visits. This could have been the beginning of a new life on the island… had Rakhadar not needed to stay away from anything that reminded him of Maegorn. Now his view of the after-battle future was to return to the mountain, double the number of guards at the border and burn his secret room to ashes. He might even need to rename Aire…

A series of whistles made him straighten. The sky above him darkened – a cloud of Frawvanna arrows swished by in an arch and found its targets somewhere beyond the line of trees. A retaliatory strike followed, the foreign arrows faster and pointier, but also lighter: they pounded the fireblood armor like raindrops against the shutters, most of them rolling off with soft clanking. A few got tangled in Aire’s pelt, but never pierced through the layers of fur. At the violent drumming, Rakhadar lowered the cloak. The mainland elves were pouring in, their faces longer, their skin lighter, their swords wider. They were a faceless mass in stupid feathered helmets, and Rakhadar hated them.

With a roll of the hips, he nudged Aire into attack. His scythe cut wide swathes through the foreign army, their deep purple and red armor turning the ground into a freshly mowed flower field. One bastard grasped at Aire’s pelt and straddled the jakothar behind Rakhadar. There was a hold on him from behind. A hiss. A blade swipe against Rakhadar’s neck. Neck? Really? The dimheads didn’t even know the basics. At his violent hip-roll, Aire bucked – the elf behind him lost his grip and dropped to the ground. Rakhadar turned to finish the ash-tosser, but the elf was already dead, Maegorn’s swords flashing through the wound in his chest.

‘You alright?’

Rakhadar wiped the trickle of blood off his neck.

‘A scratch.’

A gut-wrenching creak, like the groan of a dozen falling trees, made them look up. In the distance, on the cliff above the jungle, a monster of a machine was emerging, its beams and columns reaching into the sky, a group of foreign elves busy assembling the last parts.

Rakhadar’s ears pressed to the sides of his head.

‘What in the Inferno Mother is this?’ he asked, forgetting to make the wiping gesture.

‘I’ve seen these on mainland,’ Maegorn said in a stunned whisper. ‘It’s a catapult, a missile-throwing machine.’ He swiped blood off his cheek. ‘They are going to burn the jungle.’

Just to prove his words, the elves on the cliff rolled out carts of jakothar-sized barrels.

Burn the jungle? What kind of imbecile strategy was that? There was no stopping a wildfire – at the council everyone had agreed that the firebloods were to spew fire only if the situation turned hopeless. Was Faergol going to rule over ashes and skeletons? What profit would he have from burnt plantations and destroyed harvests?

‘Are they completely—’ Rakhadar looked for an Elvish word for a _schmugh_ and realized they’d been talking Firetongue. Maegorn was still staring up at the machine, and Rakhadar forced his eyes away, never finishing his question, as another wave of mainland elves swept over, separating them enough that they didn’t fight side by side, but not enough that Rakhadar couldn’t keep an eye on the steel vest blinking in the sun.

The demonic machine on the cliff was growing more terrifying with each new element attached to the wooden carcass. Rakhadar hoped Le’unn saw it too, and would send a regiment to climb the cliff and destroy the monster before it incinerated Frawvanna, and soon there it was – a slender figure leaping up the stones, its green cloak a leafy veil billowing in the wind.

But one? Only one?

And then Maegorn noticed it, too.

A wail that tore through him woke nightmarish memories – elves screamed like this when they were burning alive. There was not a spark on Maegorn, but the hair – the hair of the climber was glowing sunshine.

_I’m going to prove I’m strong enough._

Dimhead.

‘Pereliv!’ Maegorn gave a deafening whistle and launched his jakothar forward.

He was blocked by a wall of swords, a tempest of arrows, a sea of smutty mainlanders, all standing between his lover and him. Cutting through almost blindly, the way he had done when a demon had attacked Bebukul, Maegorn was wading through the foes, but the place of every slayed one was filled with two living, and he growled in frustration.

Fighting his own pointy-ears, Rakhadar followed Maegorn’s progress, then looked up towards the cliff – it was useless. Maegorn would never get there in time. The stupid _stupid_ elf was almost at the top, where a group of armored mainlanders would quarter him before he unsheathed his sword.

‘Pereliv…’ Maegorn’s voice broke at the name.

Rakhadar set his jaw. Casting the scythe away, he tore off his armor and chugged a bottle of oil in one hurried gulp. A moment later he was in the air, praying no enemies would be looking up. Eyes focused on the scaling figure, he almost collided with a giant burning missile. He jerked away, and it missed him by a hairbreadth, scalding his face with a wave of sizzling air. It crashed among the trees and exploded, shaking the ground and sending orange tails in all directions. Both amazed and terrified, Rakhadar hovered in the air for a few seconds, then resumed his flight. When he reached the cliff, the elf was already fighting. Rather, sinking to the ground, grasping at his neck, his enemy's sword lowering into his chest. Rakhadar bore into the mainlander, and they both rolled on the ground. When they stilled, he tore off the feathered helmet and bashed the pointy-eared head against the rocks. Barely on his feet, he was attacked by the rest of the purple cloaks, but this was no jungle, so Rakhadar spewed fire. A steady roaring bolt of angry flames that melted armor and charred pale-skinned bodies to coals.

When there were no enemies alive on the cliff, he rushed to the golden-haired shape on the ground. The elf’s sickly hand was pressed tightly against the neck, but blood oozed through the glassy fingers. Mouth opening in wheezing gurgling gulps, he looked at Rakhadar.

‘You won, dog,’ he said, even though speaking obviously hurt. ‘I won’t stand in your way—’ he coughed, droplets of red splattering his lips and chin, ‘you will not be hindered… by an inconvenient sun.’

‘Shut up,’ Rakhadar barked, estimating the best way to pick up the doll without breaking it further.

What was he mumbling about? Dimhead. What in the Inferno Mother’s sake was an inconvenient su—

The hair at the back of his head stood on end.

He looked into the eyes that were losing consciousness and saw it. He finally saw it. The fading elf in his arms was not just young – he was a smutty elfling, just a few years older than Bebukul, a silly proud boy with one ear slightly larger than the other. All the _I love you more than anything in the world_ , _you make my life worth living_ and _you have a place in my heart that no one will ever take_ came back to him in a new light…He howled. Ripping off his sleeves he tied them around the bleeding gash on the boy’s neck, pressed the limp body to his chest and stepped off the cliff.

He was ascending slowly, careful not to disturb Pereliv’s wound. The first arrow scraped against his horn, the second pierced the hem of his skirt, the third grazed the knee. He cursed: now that he had been noticed, he couldn’t be this lucky for long. A volley of arrows was fired his way and he turned his back towards them, curling around the boy, waiting to be pierced.

There was no pain.

He lifted his head – a fireblood cloak was covering him in a cocoon of safety. He met Bebukul’s excited eyes.

‘Get me to the camp,’ he rasped.

The way to the camp was no more than a few moments of flight, but to the weakened Rakhadar it lasted a lifetime. In the camp, the healers took the unconscious elfling and carried him inside the tent. A bushel of coals was pushed into Rakhadar’s hands and he swallowed them without chewing, three pieces at a time.

Leaning heavily over a tree trunk, he turned to Bebukul.

‘You never told me you had mother’s gift,’ he said over the full mouth.

Tiredly, Bebukul hitched a shoulder. ‘You were busy fighting your own demon.’

Rakhadar closed his eyes for a moment, then leaned down and pressed his horns to Bebukul’s. Bebukul pressed back.

Wiping blackened lips with a sleeveless wrist, Rakhadar straightened.

‘Where are you going?’ Bebukul asked.

‘Back. If Faergol has more than one such evil machine, elves don’t stand a ch—’

High-pitched trumpeting interrupted him, followed by a very specific drumming.

Bebukul jumped to his feet. ‘What is it?’

Rakhadar looked towards the battlefield. ‘Parley,’ he said, shaking coal crumbs off his skirt. ‘They’re asking for parley.’

With three parties gathered for the parley, the tent set on the beach felt crowded. Le’unn, U’tron and Miluris headed the Frawvanna delegation; Rakhadar and Jasofrah represented firebloods. Mainlanders’ envoy consisted of three elves: King Faergol, silver-haired and grand, looking like a Spirit from an elven painting, and his two commanders, all males. Faces wrinkled in disdain, they entered, careful of what they touched and choosing their footing, as if in a kennel that hadn’t been washed for a week.

There was commotion at the entrance and in a waft of worry and jakothar sweat Maegorn burst inside. Cheeks hollow and pupil shrunk to dots, he grasped Rakhadar’s shoulder. His lips were so tightly pressed, he couldn’t ask the question.

‘He’s with the healers,’ Rakhadar said softly.

Maegorn’s eyes filled with relief.

‘Is this a parley tent or a bordello?’ The haughty voice could only belong to King Faergol.

They sat, still sweaty and panting, smearing blood over their faces with tattered sleeves, while Faergol was reposing lazily, immaculate to the chin in white lace and festive armor, his prickly crest etched on the shiny breastplate. Ancient he was, wisdom of centuries behind his shoulders, and yet his face radiated the perfection of youth, unnaturally so. The silver locks intricately braided, not a hair out of place, he regarded them, a tint of boredom in the stormy grey eyes, and a speck of disdain.

‘So which one of you, whipper-snappers, is in charge of the glorious army of Frawvanna?’

Le’unn straightened, even though she had already been sitting like she’d swallowed one of her own arrows.

‘That would be me, your Grace,’ she said in a voice remarkably calm. ‘And as king Silveryn’s heir and future queen, I would advise you not to start the parley with insults.’

The king gave her a long assessing look and she held it, unwavered, if slightly blushing.

‘So be it, princess Le’unn,’ Faergol said, drawling her name like it were a piece of dirt he was wiping off his immaculate leather boot. ‘I happen to have a proposition for you. I suggest you take it, as so far your first battle as the heir of king Silveryn has not been particularly successful – two hours we’ve been fighting and you’re already losing.’

Was he bluffing? Was this true?

Rakhadar had seen no reports so far, so he turned to Maegorn – and saw no reaction: Maegorn’s eyes were fixed on Faergol’s breastplate, as if he were seeing something no one else was.

Le’unn shifted in her chair.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to hear your proposition before I consider taking it, your Grace.’

Faergol smiled. From all the smiles Rakhadar had seen on elves’ faces, this was the scariest. Because it was evil. And he meant it.

‘The truth is, princess, I am an elf of a weak heart. Merciful to the point of a flaw. And, however much the elves of Frawvanna have grown to resemble… _demons_ ,’ he spat the word as if he knew it was an insult, ‘you are, after all, my kin. I’m benevolent enough to give you a chance – not only to survive, but to redeem yourselves to the Spirits.’ He lifted a graceful hand and propped a cheek on the long gem-studded fingers. ‘The machine you saw – the catapult – is one of many. Each of my ships carries one, and they are being unloaded on the beach and set up as we speak, along with a thousand barrels of safflower oil.’

Rakhadar’s ears went cold. Safflower oil. The strongest. The fiercest. Giving most power but also devouring everything twice as fast.

Jasofrah gave him a nervous glance, and Faergol noticed. His smile widened as he faced Le’unn.

‘Your jungle could cease to exist in a matter of hours, princess. Yet I’m willing to let you keep it.’

‘If?’

Faergol interlaced his fingers. ‘If you join me and help me kill the beasts.’ He made a leisurely wave at Rakhadar and Jasofrah.

The silence rang for a few seconds before Rakhadar found his voice.

‘Why?’ was all he could ask, stunned by the hatred sizzling in those grey eyes.

Faergol straightened his lacy collar. He paused, perhaps deliberating on whether Rakhadar was worthy of his attention, but finally said, ‘Because you are filthy animals that defy the Spirits and mar the face of the world by the mere fact of your existence.’

‘You’ve never even met us.’

Faergol studied a ruby ring on his index finger. ‘I’ve heard enough.’ He gave a little sigh. ‘What will your answer be, princess?’

Everyone’s eyes on her, Le’unn lingered. Licked her lips. Ran a hand through her disheveled hair. Rakhadar couldn’t blame her. He didn’t know what he would have chosen in her place. Waiting for her answer, he tapped his claws against the armrest.

Pinkie-ring-middle-index.

Pinkie-ring-middle-index.

Pinkie-ring-middle—

Faergol snapped, ‘Stop it, _demon_ —’

‘Don’t call him that.’ Everyone turned to Le’unn. ‘ _Demon_ is an insult,’ she continued, ‘and our neighbors prefer to go by as _firebloods_.’

Faergol narrowed his eyes.

‘Should I take it as a _no_ , princess?’

‘This is a _no_ that you can take,’ she said, shifting from her future queen mode into a full-scale Le’unn Snot-Face, ‘and shove it up your fat mainland ass.’

With a dramatic gasp, Faergol lifted.

‘Listen to yourself, future queen. Look at yourselves, all of you!’ He swiped gracefully at the present elves. ‘You’ve become dogs, filthy, uncouth. You’d rather protect a demon than side with an elf? You deserve death as much as your _neighbors_.’

‘These are very big words from someone who once was a fan of firebloods,’ Maegorn said. He had finally torn his eyes off the king’s breastplate and was now looking straight at Faergol. He was also speaking Firetongue. ‘One fireblood in particular.’

Utterly confused, Rakhadar stared at Maegorn.

‘Don’t you dare bark at me!’ Faergol leaned across the table, the candlelight dancing on the blood-colored ring on his finger. ‘It’s an assault to my ears.’

Rakhadar looked harder at the gem in that ring – red, but not a ruby as he’d first assumed – and chuckled. It was a day of revelations. At last the prickled crest and the nickname at the end of the letters addressed to his father made sense.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t understand, your Grace,’ he said in Firetongue. ‘Or should I say… Bramble?’

Faergol froze, his face a ceramic mask. He swallowed. With the last traces of composure, he lowered into his chair. Cautiously, he swiped his eyes across the room, assessing how many were aware, then let out a breath at the puzzled faces.

‘Leave us,’ he said.

His commanders were gone before he finished. The Frawvanna elves left after exchanging glances with Maegorn, while Jasofrah lingered until Rakhadar assured her he was safe.

Faergol sat, a perfect statue of himself, only a throbbing vein on his temple indicating he was still alive.

At last he stirred.

‘I want those letters gone,’ he said in perfect Firetongue.

Rakhadar tilted his head. ‘I want you gone from the island.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or the translation of those letters will reach my cousin Liarwe, who as you know is now the Lady of Golden wood,’ Maegorn said. ‘I’m sure the courts of mainland will be happy to find out the righteous King Faergol had an affair with a demon. What will your wife say?’

Nothing changed in Faergol’s face, except that his nostrils quivered. 

‘Fine,’ he spat in the end.

The gorgeous gem blinked as the king fidgeted with it. Red edges, darkening in the center, forming a black horizontal pupil. A jorandit – the pride of fireblood mining. Few were lucky to possess such treasure, and fewer still knew of its meaning: the apple of my eye, presented to one true love.

‘So the talk about wanting our lands was only a cover to make us fight against firebloods?’ Maegorn asked.

‘I was quite content while you were killing each other,’ Faergol said. ‘For years I have been trying to get Silveryn to renew the war but he was clutching to the peace treaty like a hen to the chicks, no matter what I or Miluris said.’

‘Mother?’ Maegorn asked incredulously. ‘All this to revenge for Gharaf leaving you?’

Faergol’s eyes exploded with lightnings. ‘He didn’t leave me,’ he snapped. The perfect face was still as beautiful, but the air about it changed, like a vase with a fine web of cracks – not broken, but fragile enough that a touch would bring it to pieces.

Rakhadar knew this look. ‘You really loved him.’

The corner of Faergol’s mouth twitched in what could have been a smile or a snarl. ‘I was ready to give up my throne for him.’

‘What happened?’

Faergol was silent for a long while. ‘He said he wanted to reason with his family. A week, he said. A week and I’ll come back to you. The moment he set foot on the island… the bitch picked him. As if he were a pig at the market. She picked him for a husband – and… that was it. Apparently, there was nothing he, or I could do. And his smutty family didn’t lift a finger.’

‘They didn’t know, he must have never told them.’

‘Oh they knew! Gharaf worshiped his older brother. But when he confessed he was in love with an elf, Guabohr broke his nose. So of course they knew. They just didn’t care.’ He paused. ‘Then she found my letters and… butchered him. And they all stood and watched and did nothing to stop her.’

‘It was a fair challenge.’

‘Was it?’ Faergol narrowed his eyes. ‘In the last letter he told me he wasn’t going to fight back. He would let her kill him, because he couldn’t live this lie anymore. They squeezed life out of him and then finished the husk.’ He turned to Maegorn. ‘They are rabid dogs, who chose a beast of a queen and followed her every bark because they were too scared of her bite. They deserve to die.’

Maegorn didn’t hesitate for a moment.

‘And you think you are more deserving of life?’ he demanded. ‘Guided by revenge, you brought your soldiers to death and they followed, scared to oppose their king. How many sons and daughters, brothers and sisters are now scattered across the jungle, fallen because of your spite? You have no right to judge them.’ Maegorn stood. ‘You have time till morning, your Grace. Take your dead and leave.’

They stepped towards the exit when Faergol’s cracking voice made them stop.

‘Wait,’ he said, standing. ‘Show him to me.’ He licked his lips, the next word dragging out of his throat as if through resistance, ‘Please.’

Rakhadar reached out for a bottle.

‘You’re tired,’ Maegorn said, touching his arm.

‘I’m fine,’ he reassured.

He gulped the oil and took a deep breath.

In a gentle exhale, a tendril of gossamer flame escaped his lips, reaching up, bubbling, curling, until it outlined the shape – tall and slightly hunched, a square face, wide crooked horns. Large troubled eyes, so similar to his own. Father, the way he remembered. The image trembled in the air, glinting and ghostly, and Faergol moved to it, hypnotized, hands reaching out, a step before the touch—

The ground shook and the air thrummed in an ear-popping rumble. Breath caught in Rakhadar’s throat and father’s image disappeared with a simmering whiff.

Turning to Maegorn, he saw his panic mirrored: for the growling and the earth-shattering to be felt here, by the ocean, there had to be dozens of portals. Maybe hundreds.

They rushed outside and bumped into a crowd of elves and firebloods – all frozen like statues, peering up at the mountain. Alarm towers, like a chain of green-bellied fireflies, were alight as far as the eye could see, and above… The Inferno Mother wasn’t just angry – she was belching out her wrath in splashes of fire, magnificently orange against the sky.

With a blustering roar, a cloud of ash mushroomed into the air. It expanded quickly, whipped up and hauled by the violent gusts of wind. In a few moments that Rakhadar stood, unable to move, it swallowed half the sky. Firebloods around him were falling to their fours, howling prayers to the Inferno Mother, while elves were lifting their arms into the air, begging their Spirits for mercy.

Dimheads. Nobody was listening to them. Nobody cared.

The ground trembled again, and Rakhadar’s heart thumped, echoing the explosions.

Faergol was the first to wake.

‘To the ships,’ he told his commanders. ‘Order the soldiers to board this instant.’

‘Help us!’ Le’unn stood in his way. ‘You have lost many, you have room on your ships.’

He shook his head. ‘You chose your neighbors over me, princess, now die with them.’

‘Take our children!’ Miluris clutched at his sleeve, but he jerked it away.

‘What use do I have of your children?’

He moved towards the water, ignoring their pleading, and stepped into a graceful swan-shaped boat.

‘Leave us the catapults,’ Rakhadar said in Firetongue. ‘If there was ever any love in your heart for my father, give us a chance.’

Faergol looked long and hard into his eyes. ‘Be my guest.’

There was a rhythmic splashing of oars, but it was soon swallowed by the booming and screeching.

The mountain shook, spewing bursts of rock and ash, exploding with enormous fury, until it was overfilled with rage and a shimmering slide of burning lava weaved down the slope. The thin streak of red was quirking like a lazy stream of thick blood oozing out of a gashing wound, leaving behind a landscape of black desperate nothingness. 

‘Jorotaja,’ Maegorn whispered. ‘The mines, the villages, the castle…’

Rakhadar set his jaws tight. The mountain blasted again, its roars seething with pain and anguish. They hurt like his own. All his life he wished he’d been born somewhere – anywhere – else, but now that Jorotaja was ceasing to exist, for the first time it felt like home. 

He clenched his fists, driving the claws into his palms. ‘Zarbezahl will evacuate the castle and send word forth to the villages,’ he said evenly. He needed to believe this, otherwise he would drop to his fours and howl. He tore his eyes away from the black gluttonous monster that was devouring his home. ‘There will be demons. Hordes of them. And if they don’t find food on the mountain, they’ll go down to the jungle.’

Miluris pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘What do we do?’

‘We fight,’ Le’unn said. She jerked her chin at Rakhadar. ‘Tell us how.’

Rakhadar looked towards the barrels stacked on the beach.

‘Safflower oil will give us strength, so Jasofrah and I will fly our regiments up the mountain to fight the demons. With the ash cloud heading our way, our visibility will be lowered, so many will break through. Someone needs to finish them off along the border to make sure they don’t reach Frawvanna. U’tron?’

‘I’ll be there.’ U’tron lingered. ‘But… my division has been thinned, I’m not sure it will be enough—’

‘I’ll be there, too.’ They turned towards the grim voice: Guabohr stood a few steps away, arms crossed on the chest, face drawn and pale. Rakhadar gave him a quick nod.

‘What about the fire river?’ Le’unn asked. ‘It’s moving towards us.’

‘That’s what the catapults are for.’ Rakhadar looked back at the beach. ‘Fill the empty barrels with the ocean water and bombard the fire river to cool it down. Take the Young Fire regiment – they will fly up and direct your shots.’

‘And if it doesn’t work?’

‘According to fireblood legends, it worked a thousand years ago.’

‘But if it doesn’t?’

Rakhadar’s eyes drew to the mountain. It was ablaze and hazy with smoke, but it was clear that the alarm towers had gone dark. ‘Then you will lose your home, princess. Just like I’ve just lost mine.’

He took a step towards the beach but was stopped by Maegorn.

‘I’m coming with you.’

Rakhadar shook his head. ‘The heat will burn through your skin. Save Frawvanna.’

Maegorn’s mouth became a thin line. A gust of wind tugged at the buckwheat-honey-colored hair, peppering it with ash. Rakhadar gave himself a moment to look into the dear face.

Then he spoke softly, his whisper only intended for Maegorn’s ears. ‘Nothing is standing between us, I know it now. Just a horde of demons and a river of fire – nothing we can't handle. Promise me we’ll both survive this.’

Maegorn blinked the grime out of his eyes and his lips curved up a tiny bit. ‘I promise.’

Rakhadar reached the giant barrel and used the thick spike on the back of his saber to punch a hole in its side. He drank a bottleful of safflower oil and took a breath—

The roar that burst out of his chest reverberated through the air, making the elves cover their ears.

This was his call. The call for all the firebloods to come to his side – his friends, his family, his people. The ones that spat, burped and cursed, but were also the world’s best miners and jewelers, drummers and dancers. The ones that could ride jakothar. And breathe fire. And fly. The ones that had chosen him. And for the first time he was proud to be their king.

They answered. They came. They stood, looking up at him with hopelessness and yet, with hope.

‘Our blood is fire,’ he said the lines of an old prayer, keeping his voice calm and heard by all, ‘our hearts are flames, our breath is destruction. But we are firebloods, not demons. The fire does not control us, we control the fire. So fill your heart with hope, fill your stomach with oil, and fly with me to wipe the demons once and for all!’

A mighty roar answered him, as the firebloods dashed towards the barrels, punching them and filling their bottles.

In a moment, they were in the air.

The last thing Rakhadar saw was Bebukul, who stood, head tilted back and tongue stuck out to catch the falling ash flakes, and announcing to no one in particular, ‘Hmm… tasty!’


	18. Chapter 18

The mountain had been raging for more than three hours now, rumbling and shaking, spitting out more ash. It rained so thickly, nothing was visible at an arm’s length. Maegorn stayed as close to the fire river’s edge as he could. His eyes itched and watered, his lungs rattled with coughs, so he took off his tunic to wrap it around his nose and mouth.

In a rush of hot air, giant wooden missiles were flying past him and crushing into the side of the smoldering flow. The barrels smashed, ocean water spilled into the river and turned into scalding steam Maegorn had learnt the hard way to stay away from.

He strained his ears over the gushing wind. There came the flapping of cloaks, the warning howls and the violent hiccoughing: Bebukul and his unexpected side-effect of drinking safflower oil.

Landing next to him, Bebukul and Kut’ha wiped their blood- and ash-covered faces and sheathed their swords.

‘What happened?’ Maegorn asked, his voice muffled by the mask.

‘Flew into a couple of demons,’ Kut’ha said.

Liars. Saw a couple of demons and decided to be recklessly heroic, more likely.

‘You should be more careful.’ Maegorn frowned, but he wasn’t sure it was clear behind the hood.

‘We are’ – hiccough – ‘careful.’ Bebukul’s eyes were wild and he was even jumpier than usual. ‘How is it going?’ he asked looking down at the river.

‘Not fast enough.’ Maegorn took a few steps back, as the heat grew unbearable, and twisted his neck towards the approaching line of trees. Each step he was forced to make meant the river was a few inches closer to destroying the jungle.

‘What message for Le’unn?’ Kut’ha asked.

‘As always,’ he said, ‘thirty inches to the south.’ He looked over at the spot where barrels were crashing into the gurgling flow. The river was solidifying… too slowly to spare Frawvanna. Maegorn was gritting his teeth at the helplessness. This was bigger than any of them – whatever power was driving this, it was beyond them to make any difference.

He gave a nervous sigh. ‘I’m not sure it’ll work.’

‘Hey,’ Bebukul said. ‘Giving up is the only sure way to lose.’

Beside him Kut’ha clicked her tongue. ‘I don’t think this is a Ghutak Aru story, Bebukul.’

Oh. That was why the phrase sounded familiar. Ghutak Aru, the boy who diverted the hungry worm-eyed witch by digging a tunnel straight to the ocean…

Maegorn twirled to the firelings, his eyes wide and bright. ‘Fly back to Le’unn and tell her to stop emptying the barrels. Tell her to shoot one barrel filled with oil, a yard to the left of their current aim, then fly back to me and I’ll adjust it.’

Bebukul wordlessly blinked, his puzzled reaction a copy of his brother’s.

‘Are we going to shoot the river with oil?’ Kut’ha asked.

‘No.’ Maegorn’s smile was a little crazy behind the mask. ‘We’re going to dig a tunnel that would lead the witch into the ocean.’ He wasn’t sure it would work, but he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

When they took off and disappeared in the fog, he looked up to where according to his calculations lay the mountain. He prayed that Rakhadar was keeping his part of the promise.

Rakhadar wiped the dirty tears out of his eyes. Fierce gusts of wind nearly uprooted him, so he planted his feet wide apart, slipping in the sticky puddle of mud and blood, as he scanned the thick haze for movement. Now and then he had to duck from rocks or pieces of debris swishing by: he’d barely escaped being massacred by a whirlwind of training scythes and broken tables. He strained his eyes for any movement in the wind – it would be a shame to die skewed by his own armor stand.

How long had they been fighting? He had no way of telling, except that the ground was now a mass of mangled corpses and his whole body was aching – the safflower oil was strong, but not magical. How much longer would he last? With the signal towers destroyed and the thick shroud of haze enveloping the mountain, there was no way of telling where the enemies would pour in from. He’d already missed two attacks and had paid for it with nasty bites along his shin and a burn on the back. But he’d been lucky. His mind supplied the pictures of the butchered blue-skinned bodies he’d glimpsed as he’d been blindly dashing around in the ashstorm, but he pushed them away, focusing on the present.

A flicker on the right.

He leaped, swinging his saber – it caught flesh with a sickening splat and a high-pitched whine. The enemy was a smudgy outline, but even this was enough that he hit it again, hacking off a limb, and again – ending its life. The blurred shape slumped to the ground and he made a step—

Pain tore his shoulder blade as teeth sank into his skin: another smutty bastard had sneaked up from behind. Rakhadar swiped back with the free hand, claws aiming in the direction of the demon’s eye. His fingers jammed into something soft and wet. The one behind kicked him and buckled with the force of enraged jakothar, and Rakhadar dropped to the ground. an his shoulder open, the demon lost its balance and skidded along the stones, raising a cloud of ash. It scrambled up before Rakhadar could lift his saber, so with a growl, they lunged at each other, spewing fire, their streams meeting in the air. Now it was the matter of who had taken a deeper breath.

Rakhadar’s fire was steady and strong, but the demon was spewing just as hard. With every second Rakhadar’s lungs were deflating, shrinking like smith’s bellows. His throat was beginning to spasm. He tensed up, knowing full well he was drawing the final sparks: a moment later he’d be empty, and the demon would fry him before he took another breath. In despair he fisted the sides of his skirt – there was something inside his pocket. He jerked it out and hurled at the enemy.

The crystal box made a graceful arch in the air, the lid falling open, the freed guiding light slamming into the demon’s only good eye, painting the smoke around them a dazzling purple. The beast roared, blindly swirling and poking its claws, until Rakhadar took a new breath and spewed again.

The demon’s carcass was smoking on the stones, and, panting, Rakhadar dropped to his fours. He was still trying to catch his breath when he felt something. It went through his palms and knees, faint and tenuous, like the drumming Maegorn had taught him to listen, and just like then, the sounds reverberated in his chest. He froze, waiting for the distant rumbling to repeat, and it came, even stronger, from the right. It was as if the mountain was talking to him, sharing its worry. It resembled a distant voice – grumbling, annoyed at a new portal unsettling its routine – the voice of an old woman.

The Inferno Mother.

What if her growls were not anger, but… guidance?

He scrambled to his feet and picked up the guiding light with the folds of his skirt. That was when he realized the gem wasn't his present. Just as purple, the stone was smaller and of a slightly different shade, but it was burning his fingers just as much, so he hid it in the box and slid it into his pocket.

He felt both, guilty and happy. But mostly, he felt strong. He could burn an army of demons.

Taking a deep breath, he howled, calling his soldiers. His voice barely rose above the crashing and rumbling. And yet someone had heard. Vociferous drumming lifted above the din, passing his call to the firebloods. In the whole of Jorotaja there was only one drummer this strong, and Rakhadar barked at Ruhgar in gratitude. He rushed to the right, giving out coarse calls. The drumming was always a step behind, urging his soldiers to follow.

The Inferno Mother’s directions proved right. He ran into a pack of Hollerers that snarled at the sight of the new victim. As Rakhadar was wielding his scythe, he heard stifled yelps of dying demons all around him – his regiment was joining the fight.

These demons dealt with, Rakhadar pressed his palms to the slippery rocks and once again Mother provided advice. Fight after fight, he kneeled to listen, and over and over she spoke to him. Until after another exhausting battle was won, her grumbling voice became an indignant roar, a furious bellow, just a little ahead. Rakhadar rushed towards it, howling Rughar to follow. As he was getting closer, Mother’s rumbles intensified, turning to panicky shrieks, as if she was saying something, warning him, but he was too blind and tired to understand. Something was there, invisible in the haze. Something that was hurting and draining Mother, not letting her calm down, something enormous and ravenous—

Rakhadar’s ears pressed to his head and he snapped back to where he’d last heard the vehement drumming.

‘Yunnagg!’ he yelled, the muscles of his body going stiff at the effort. ‘Take cover!’

Drummers didn’t have a special pattern for a command like this, so he hoped Rughar would simply drum retreat, driving everyone as far away as possible, but instead, the furious beats spelled the rhythm Rakhadar was sure he’d never hear after the end of mother’s rule. _‘Die with fire in your blood’_ – a death sentence, which, by her order, had always been drummed before someone had been executed by demon fire. Oh genius Ruhgar, this was bound to evoke memories – still bleeding and fresh – in everyone’s mind. None would ignore it, none would misinterpret.

Rakhadar barely covered himself when the gush of raw lava-like fire hit him, his skin bubbling in the tears of the tattered cloak. Even through the pain and the roaring of fire, he heard the pained screams of the firebloods who hadn’t had the time to hide from the attack, and each of those screams cindered a piece of his soul. Those were his soldiers, his people, and they were dying, having chosen to stand by his side. Anger boiled in the pit of his stomach, the demon in him sizzling in anticipation, but, like a tamed jakothar, it waited for his permission to attack. The moment Yunnagg paused, searching the mist for more flesh, Rakhadar gave this permission and his throat exploded with a surge so intense, it engulfed the monster, revealing its giant burning shape – a target of blurry orange, visible to all. Immediately shafts of fire pierced the ashy haze, pummeling the demon from all sides. The roaring shape dashed about, growling and raging, trying to escape. It lifted up into the air, but crashed blindly into a cliff and dropped to the ground a writhing mass of foul-smelling coals.

Rakhadar sank to his knees. His body begged for a rest, but he didn’t let it. Instead, he closed his eyes. He listened.

There was silence.

He allowed himself a few seconds to catch his breathing. His throat was burning, making every inhale a torture. Ignoring it, he gave a special howl and, hearing an answer, rushed to the left, where he knew he’d find Jasofrah.

When he slammed into her, she nearly clubbed him, but he jumped away, putting up his hands.

‘It’s me,’ he wheezed.

She looked him up and down, lingering on his bloodied shoulder and patches of burns. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘The mountain,’ he breathed. ‘You hear?’

Jasofrah perked her ears. ‘I hear nothing.’

‘That’s it! The shaking, the rumbling – it’s all gone. She’s calming down.’

‘You mean…’

‘No more portals.’ He wiped his brow and his fingers shook. ‘It’s over.’

She stood, doubt and exhaustion twisting her face – it felt like a lifetime of haze and ash and death. At last she let out a breath. Her voice was a whisper when she said, ‘We won.’

Rakhadar squeezed her shoulder.

‘Tell Ruhgar to drum retreat. We’ll join Guabohr and U’tron at the border and will be picking out the leftover demons one by one.’

She howled twice – a melodious reverberating signal that was meant for her husband, and said again, in a louder voice, ‘We won!’

They waited, sheathing their weapons and giving each other’s burns quick licks, until the continued silence wiped the tired smiles off their faces. Jasofrah’s lips twitched as she gave another nervous howl. The wind was her only answer. She rushed off into the smoke, and her desperate howls moved further, then drew closer, and finally turned into a single gut-chilling wail that was clearer than any words. Rakhadar hurried towards it, and first in a pool of blood he saw a diamond-headed hammer, then a fractured drum and finally Ruhgar, his body limp and pale on Jasofrah’s lap.

Rakhadar stepped closer, but Jasofrah gave him a look that was so pained, he flinched away.

‘He was a fireblood,’ she said, her voice coarse and hollow, ‘and yet he deserved love.’ She pressed her horns to Rughar’s, then wrapped her arms tight around him and soared up.

Their blurry shadows hovered in the distance – an accidental smudge on a blank canvas – and then faded.

Rakhadar blinked, tears trembling on his eyelashes.

The wind had changed its course, and for a moment he looked up – there was a tiny patch of blue sky showing through the ashy grayness. He turned towards the jungle, towards the ocean – towards Maegorn, but could see nothing in the fog and could hear nothing in the roaring gurgles of lava. And yet Maegorn was there. Alive, just as he had promised. He had to be. Because now there was nobody standing between them, except a horde of demons and a river of fire. Nothing they couldn’t handle.

The wind picked up, sending more debris his way. On a mighty exhale, he howled for his soldiers to follow and stepped forward.

He never saw the Sovereign’s Orb flying his way. The diamond ball filled with the horntips of all the previous – dead – rulers of Jorotaja must have been blasted up from its stand in one of the explosions and was now coming at him in a cloud of smoke. There was no warning. All Rakhadar felt was a gust of wind, a shot of pain in the side of his head and then – nothing.


	19. Chapter 19

Maegorn pulled off his improvised mask and wiped his face. At last he could take a breath without choking. At last he could close his eyes, even if for a moment.

After four hours of relentless bombing, the fire river had finally given in. Taking the course of the tunnel made by the explosions, it rounded towards the ocean and now its steady deadly flow was dripping off the cliff. It had eaten away a patch of the jungle – most of the plantations – but the Lunalin forest and the houses were safe.

The wind was changing, clearing the air and revealing the harrowing aftermath. The once vibrant scenery was now covered by a mournful cloak of grey, with heaps of ash burying the roads, muddying the ground, bending the trees. Quite a few of the ancient giants had been blown down by the gale and the fragments of the mountain, and now lay, defeated, blocking the way. But the most shocking was the silence: no bird or critter dared to make a sound; Maegorn’s soft steps along the ash-padded forest floor were thundering.

When the sky showed enough, it finally unveiled the jagged ghostly form of the Aploss Peak. What was left of it. The right slope had disappeared, like a piece taken out of a cake, and what remained was covered in such a thick layer of dirt and debris, it was impossible to say if the castle still stayed under it.

Turning his head back to the ruins every few steps, Maegorn headed for the jungle.

He hoped he’d find mother, but on the stairs of the royal chengael he saw Le’unn. She was crying, smudging dirt over her cheeks. He sat next to her and drew his knees closer to his chest.

‘He didn’t get to hear that Frawvanna was saved,’ she said through a sob. ‘He died thinking all was lost.’

The wind picked up, blowing the grey away.

‘He knew you’d succeed.’ Maegorn wiped the wetness from under his eyes. ‘He believed in you.’

They said nothing else, but neither of them moved away.

They were still sitting on the stairs when they heard steps – lots and lots of steps – and then through the threads of mist that clung to the air came the horned shapes. Firebloods of all ages, with children and possessions loaded on their jakothar, walked out of the fog, all looking up at the royal tree. 

Zarbezahl stepped forward.

‘I need speak king Silveryn.’

Le’unn’s throat caught, so Maegorn spoke in her stead.

‘King Silveryn is with the Spirits.’

A worried murmur rippled through the crowd.

Zarbezahl clicked his tongue. ‘Then…’ He started and paused, studying Maegorn from under the bushy eyebrows. ‘Then I need speak his heir.’

‘Indeed,’ Maegorn said and pointed at Le’unn.

Zarbezahl gave him a surprised look, then nodded with what almost looked like respect. He turned to Le’unn, who had gained control by now and rose, her shoulders back and her chin lifted.

‘Our home lost,’ Zarbezahl said, ‘we no have place live. Firebloods come ask you help.’

Le’unn stood for some time, scanning the crowd.

‘You helped us save our home,’ she said, ‘we’ll help you get yours. While the mountain is off limits, every elven family will shelter a fireblood family in their tree house. We’ll offer you a roof and food and, later – any help you’ll need to restore Jorotaja.’

A sigh of relief rustled through the firebloods, putting timid smiles on their ash-covered faces.

‘Thank you, princess,’ Zarbezahl urged his jakothar closer and opened a bag strapped to her back. Gems blinked in the scarce sun rays peeping through the leaden clouds. ‘We will pay what sum you name.’

Le’unn eyed the gems, then gave a little sigh.

‘My father once said… my father said that in a time of dire need, aiding a neighbor is a duty, and a privilege. He always dreamed of peace between us and I intend to carry his vision. Keep your gems, adviser, you are going to need them to pay for mainland digging machines and supplies.’

‘I-I…’ Zarbezahl was still searching for words in Elvish, when the first grievous howl came from the back of the crowd.

Maegorn stood on tiptoes, looking above the horned heads. More firebloods were now turning and joining the lament. Words were barely discernible in their wails, but at last he made them out. Joro-ho, they were repeating. Our Blaze. Maegorn ripped through the crowd, pushing firebloods out of the way, and stopped in his tracks at the sight of Izul and Farhusa carrying a stretcher on which—

‘He is alive,’ Izul barked loudly for everyone to hear. ‘Took a blow to the head and is unconscious, but alive, so stop wailing and let us pass through to the healing tent.’

They moved on, guided by Kut’ha and Bebukul, while Maegorn slid to the ground and buried his face in his shaking hands. He was so damn tired.

U’tron lowered next to him and they sat, listening to Zarbezahl and Miluris discuss the living arrangements.

‘You did it. You diverted the fire river,’ U’tron said.

‘Took us more than five hours.’

U’tron met his eyes. ‘I’m not saying _you_ as in _all of you_ , I mean _you_.’ He swung his body to the side, driving a shoulder into Maegorn’s. ‘I’ll be damned if this doesn’t earn you a Major Tag. Anything you have in mind? Elven-Savior? Frawvanna-Hero?’

Running a hand over his eyes, Maegorn gave a tired sigh. ‘I want no tag.’

‘Maegorn No-Tag?’

Maegorn chuckled and shook his head. ‘I don’t want a tag. At all.’

‘What do you want to be then?’

Maegorn lifted his head to the clearing skies. ‘Me. I want to do things because I want to be a good elf, not because I want a good tag.’ He rubbed the scar on his wrist. ‘I also don’t want Pereliv to feel obliged to better me. If he never wants to be a warrior, he doesn’t have to.’

U’tron rearranged the bandage on his elbow. ‘Good. Because he’s rubbish. I’m glad he’d spent the battle with the healers. He would have wanted to fight, and he wouldn’t have held a minute against the demons.’ He stuck an ash-stained red braid behind his ear. ‘The beasts… I’ve never fought anything this fierce. I thought they would never end.’

‘But they did?’

‘More or less. Guabohr stayed to hunt the leftovers.’ U’tron paused. ‘That fireblood is made of steel. I was barely standing, and he was swinging his scythe as if he were mowing a lawn. And the way he spews fire…’

‘It’s weird, seeing them fight on your side.’

‘More than weird. It’s…’

U’tron trailed off, but Maegorn understood what he meant.

‘I’ll go see my son,’ he said, standing up and trying not to sway. ‘And my husband.’

U’tron gave him a weak smile. ‘And my family tonight will be a nice bottle of poison.’

Maegorn woke at the approach of heavy footsteps, and the smell – spicy and warm and now so familiar – made him smile. Waiting for Rakhadar to enter, he closed his eyes and listened, counting the time by the jungle noises: he must have slept for about three hours, finally giving in to exhaustion, right here, on the floor of the healing tent, still clutching Pereliv’s hand.

He looked up. The boy’s chest was rising in shallow but rhythmic breaths and his face, however pale, was peaceful, eyelids shut in deep sleep.

The curtain lifted and the dark blue shadow stepped cautiously inside.

‘Hey,’ Maegorn said, taking in the blackened lips and hollow cheeks, the bandaged shoulder and the mighty bump on the left side of the forehead. It looked better than the last time he’d checked on it.

‘Hey.’ Still hesitating by the entrance, Rakhadar shuffled from foot to foot and kept wiping his palms over the folds of the dirty skirt. ‘How is he?’

Waving him closer, Maegorn turned towards the ghostly elfling on the bed.

‘Asleep.’ He ran a hand over the clammy forehead, brushing away a stuck strand of gold. ‘A slash on the neck, a broken arm and three cracked ribs. He’ll recover.’

Rakhadar settled next to him on the floor, but didn’t meet his eyes, so Maegorn said, ‘Rakhadar, I’m sorry.’

‘No, I am sorry—’

‘I’m sorry about the papers. The annulment papers you gave me – I’m afraid they burnt in the chaos. I’m sorry.’

Rakhadar blinked, searching his eyes, then noticed his tired smile and, slowly, the corners of his mouth quirked up just a tiny bit, too.

But then his face fell, and he sat, worrying the folds of his skirt.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,’ he finally said. ‘I saw you dressed like this and I thought…’

‘Like what?’ Maegorn looked down at his clothes. ‘Oh,’ he said, surprised to see a tunic and leggings, grimy and torn, an old set he had left behind when leaving for Jorotaja. ‘Bebukul threw up U’tron’s pie all over my skirt, so I had to change.’ It seemed this happened years ago. He licked his dry lips, searching for the right words.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Pereliv…’

Rakhadar flicked his eyes up for a second before going back to studying his hands.

‘Tell me now.’

Right. Maegorn took a deep breath.

‘Father lost his patience and sent me away to mainland, to live with my aunt and cousin, thinking I would mature away from home. If anything, I got worse. After one particularly fun celebration, I ended up in bed with someone and... it turned out to be my cousin Liarwe.’ He rubbed Pereliv’s fingers. ‘Pereliv was born seven months later. He looked so frail, I was scared to touch him. When he turned one, Liarwe was invited to Golden Wood with marrying prospects, so aunt suggested giving him away to a childless family. That night I packed my things, took Pereliv and left for Frawvanna. I expected father’s wrath at my shameful behavior, and instead, arrived in time for his funeral.’

Rakhadar looked at Pereliv. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about him?’

‘How could I? They said you’d try to break me, and I was scared you’d use him—’

‘And then?’

‘And then... Pereliv has never been the healthiest child: a breeze puts him in bed for weeks, his bones break like twigs, and a few times his lungs gave in, he nearly suffocated. I wasn’t sure how he would be affected by the heat, the dryness, Guabohr’s yelling… Besides, once I asked, and you said you’d become king on condition you’d never have to bother with a child.’

At last Rakhadar’s eyes met his. ‘I meant I didn’t want to lay with a female!’

‘You said one Bebukul was enough. And believe me, Pereliv is just as much of a handful.’

Rakhadar frowned, biting his lips.

‘I have something to confess as well.’

‘You also have a secret child?’

Rakhadar didn’t smile. ‘I saw you two. Well, heard you. Eavesdropped.’ He spat the word, apparently disgusted with himself. ‘Before the battle and back then on our wedding day. I… I was crazy on fire and so mad, I think I flew all the way to your tree, without noticing.’

‘So you knew I had a son?’

A strand of black hair slipped out of the messy knot and swished back and forth as Rakhadar shook his head.

‘I thought he was your lover.’

‘Lover? I called him _my son_.’

Rakhadar smiled – a miserable, quivering thing.

‘His hair is so shiny, I thought you said _my sun_.’

Maegorn ran a hand over his eyes. ‘You thought he was my lover,’ he said softly, ‘and yet you flew to save him?’ He tightened his jaw. His whole body knew what he wanted to say, and yet, with the emotions suffocating him, his mind went blank. He cursed. How could he have forgotten the phrase? ‘Rakha.’ He looked into the red eyes and said in Elvish, ‘You scorch my blood.’

Rakhadar gave a surprised little laugh. Or a sob. Or both. ‘My heart blazes for you,’ he answered.

Maegorn moved closer. ‘You deserve love more than most,’ he said. ‘You are… what was the word? _Krakhtu_? Beautiful inside and out.’

With a violent shake of the head, Rakhadar pulled away, his expression pained.

‘I’m not.’ He dove into a pocket and revealed a crystal box. The box Maegorn had given Pereliv as a present. ‘After I heard you two, I-I got mad and... I talked to Pereliv.’ He swallowed, guilt sloshing in his eyes. ‘I wasn’t very polite.’

‘I bet he wasn’t polite either.’

The corner of Rakhadar’s mouth twitched. ‘He called me a horned assbadger.’

‘And from this you didn’t guess he was my son?’

Rakhadar buried his face in his hands. ‘How did I not see it?’ He groaned. ‘My demon got the better of me. I’ve learnt to control it, I have, but I wish I could give it up for good. My fire is my curse.’

‘It’s a part of you.’

‘Then why is the other part of me so different?’

Maegorn touched the blue palm. ‘Why is U’tron a commander who loves to cook? Why is Le’unn a princess who cusses like a fishmonger? And why am I an elf who, it turns out, loves wearing a skirt and riding a jakothar?’ He squeezed Rakhadar’s fingers. ‘None of us fit a tag.’

Their lips were already close enough, so Maegorn covered the little distance that separated them. Rakhadar’s lips were trembling and tasted of coal. Maegorn had missed those lips.

He pulled away at the sound of Bebukul’s thundering steps.

‘How are you feeling?’ the boy bellowed, his black teeth bared in a widest smile.

Maegorn shushed him. ‘Pereliv is sleeping.’

‘No, he’s not.’

Scrambling to his feet, Maegorn met the calm look of his son’s eyes, the same icy color as his mother’s. Suddenly he was very happy they’d been talking Firetongue.

‘How are you faring, my joy?’ he asked softly, caressing the damp forehead. He checked the bandages for blood – they were clean.

Pereliv was just looking, his eyes drifting from him to the firebloods standing by the bed. He opened his mouth but winced at the pain and closed it again. Then he lifted his hand, pressed it to his chest, then to Maegorn’s and at last pointed towards Rakhadar. Maegorn didn’t understand the gesture, but the pursed lips and the furrowed brow were eloquent enough.

‘I’m afraid this will have to wait, my joy,’ he said. ‘We aren’t going to Jorotaja for a while.’

‘But we will come back, won’t we?’ Bebukul was shooting a worried glance between them.

‘Of course,’ Rakhadar said and turned to Pereliv. ‘And then… you’ll have a cave next to your father’s, and we’ll make sure you have everything you need.’ His ears perked up. ‘The bubbly lake! If it still exists, I mean… They say the fumes it emits are beneficial for health.’

‘I can fly you there,’ Bebukul added, seating himself at the foot of the bed.

‘You’ll have your own jakothar.’

‘A grown-up jakothar could be difficult to handle,’ Maegorn said, ‘but I was thinking perhaps Pereliv could adopt Shuck-chuh?’

Bebukul jumped on the bed. ‘I’ll teach you to ride.’

Melodious trumpeting floated into the tent, and they straightened. The united council meeting was about to start.

Maegorn kissed Pereliv’s forehead. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

They turned towards the exit, while Bebukul sat cross-legged on the bed, getting more comfortable.

‘I have scavenged three books from U’tron’s house, which one do you want me to read to you?’ he asked.

Maegorn smiled, ignoring Pereliv’s panicked eyes and violent gesturing: Bebukul – door, Bebukul – door.

Opening the first book, Bebukul read, ‘The poems of Aire, the boy who lived on a star…’


	20. Chapter 20

Rakhadar closed his arms around Maegorn tighter.

Their hair was still damp from when they had been washing off the ash, and their bodies were relaxed after the release they had given each other right there in the bathroom, so Rakhadar was taking his time now, leaving feather-like fingerprints over the cool silk of Maegorn’s skin, outlining the curves of the tight muscles. They weren’t holding back their moans, as the heavy leafy curtains had been drawn, shielding them from the rest of the world.

Maegorn rolled him on the back and straddled his hips.

After a swipe of jasmine oil, he lowered into his lap, slowly swallowing him.

Rakhadar held his breath and closed his eyes – the sight of Maegorn on top of him was too much. Had someone told him a little more than a year ago, when he had just received the elven marriage proposal, that this was how he would be celebrating his wedding anniversary, he would have never believed. This was so much more than he ever imagined. That Maegorn would choose him. Fancy him. Desire him. Yet here he was, in Maegorn’s bed, with Maegorn’s hands on his shoulders, Maegorn’s scent in his lungs, Maegorn’s damp strands brushing against his chest, Maegorn’s lust wrapping him like a fireproof cloak. He was hardly prepared for it. A small stubborn part of him was still doubtful. But he needed only to pry his eyes open to be assuaged again. Maegorn’s desire was obvious. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes had grown hooded and his lips moved with shallow breaths. This sight of him heated Rakhadar up like Yunnagg’s fire.

He closed his eyes again, praying the Inferno Mother to help him stay in control.

Cool buttocks touched his thighs and paused. Maegorn leaned down to kiss him, pressing their chests together, pushing Rakhadar deeper into the mattress. Rakhadar kissed back, caressing the puffed lips with his tongue, catching Maegorn’s breaths. Lazily, he let his hand brush over each bone of the long spine, making a mental map of the cool skin. The deep scar under the left shoulder-blade. The claw marks across back. The collection of bunt spots over the right thigh. Traces of the war, reminders of their past. Rakhadar studied each of them reverently, as these little imperfections made Maegorn who he was. Rakhadar wanted to know them, until there were familiar like his own. He could spend all night doing just this. There was no need to hurry.

It seemed Maegorn had other plans, though. Letting go of Rakhadar’s mouth, he lifted his hips and thrust them down in a swing that was generous, passionate, sizzling.

Fire surged through Rakhadar. He arched his back with a moan.

‘My ghirorachu,’ he whispered dazedly. 

Maegorn paused. His soft lips rubbed against Rakhadar’s ear. ‘Is there a wish that needs granting?’

There was. One that was still too scary to say out loud.

Rakhadar licked his lips – they tasted of Maegorn. ‘Too early for wishes.’

‘Is it?’ Maegorn moved to meet his eyes. ‘You’ve already caught me.’

Rakhadar stared into those dark wells filled with honey. Oh no, they had done the catching. Long ago. He was stuck for good.

‘That’s not all. The rules say, I still need to ride you until you give in.’

Chuckling, Maegorn studied him for a moment, then sat up, giving permission. Rakhadar’s heart shimmied in his chest. Again, he prayed to the Inferno Mother to give him enough strength not to embarrass himself. He was already bursting. But he would do it. He would give Maegorn this pleasure even if it cost him his sanity.

Cautiously, he hooked his arms around Maegorn’s waist and lowered him on the bed, stretching on top, driving his hips into Maegorn’s. Maegorn gasped and clenched him inside. Rakhadar cursed at the incredible pressure. They froze.

For a while the silence of the house was interrupted only by their panting. At last Maegorn’s breathing evened.

‘By the Spirits, Rakha,’ he muttered, ‘please move.’

Rakhadar growled. An order like this he could never disobey. He withdrew, then slid all the way back, pushing into Maegorn as deeply as he could.

‘Oh yes,’ came a chocked moan.

Rakhadar closed his eyes. This was all the approval he needed.

He pushed inside, slowly picking up speed. Encouraged by Maegorn’s gasps, he moved his hips, letting the tension build until they were on the very edge, when they were about to explode – and then he stilled, panting. The coolness around him was calming, pulling him away from the edge, so he lowered his mouth for a kiss. Maegorn answered hungrily, sucking on his lips with greed. His hand was on the back of Rakhadar’s head, tangled in his hair, pressing closer, as if trying to solder them together. Rakhadar leaned in, yielding to the needy touch. But when Maegorn wriggled under him, demanding more action, Rakhadar stayed still. This pleasure was his to give. And he had planned a feast.

He waited until his full control was back. Then he moved. He did this again – thrusting hard, driving them to near climax, bringing Maegorn to the very peak – then stilling to kiss his lips, cheeks, suck on his neck, caress his hair – making them cool down. And then thrusting again. He did this over, and over, until Maegorn was biting him instead of kissing and grunting instead of moaning and pulling at his hair instead of brushing it.

‘Please,’ Maegorn rasped in between loud breaths, ‘I’ll do anything… grant any wish… just… give me release…’

Rakhadar smiled. This was what he needed to hear.

He rubbed his nose against the small leafy ear, bit those parted lips and pressed a kiss to the corner of the mouth. He wrapped a hand around Maegorn's shaft, stroking hard and fast. And then he pounded inside, listening to Maegorn’s quickening grunts, holding him tight while he buckled and clenched, and only then letting himself explode.

Fire splashed behind his closed eyelids as he slammed into those buttocks a few last times. He howled. He truly hoped the curtain constrained even this sound, but if not… their neighbors would have to simply get used to it. There was nothing he could do to suppress it.

He stilled, waiting for his heart to stop hammering. Sweat tickled, drying on his forehead.

Maegorn kissed the tip of his nose and he slipped out, whimpering, and plopped on the bed. He felt so light.

Maegorn was smiling and his profile shimmered, illuminated by the soft purple glow of the guiding light.

Rakhadar smiled, too. He smiled at the sharp cries of the piha and the metallic screeches of the bellbird, the flowery humidity of the air, the grounding coolness of Maegorn’s skin under his fingers. At the certainty that it would all be there in the morning. And the morning after that.

They wouldn’t have much time to spend together in the days to come: after food and shelter arrangements were taken care of, there would come the long-term challenges – digging out the mountain, restoring the mines, building back their homes. None of this they would be able to do without the elves’ help, and the prospect was far from enjoyable: the whole evening Rakhadar had spent settling down squabbles and fights, as old grudges and age-long resentment wrecked good intentions. Not all the elves wished to be welcoming hosts and not all the firebloods wished to be grateful guests, so the fireblood war camp still settled on the beach was now overflowing with families who’d refused to live up the trees with the smutty pointy-ears. Guabohr was always there, generously adding firepepper to each hassle, shaking his fists and showering elves with insults, which – due to his accent and bad grammar – made him sound like a very dirty-mouthed child: he told Le’unn ‘to go fuck sheself’ and called Miluris ‘a fucking liar-ess’. Rakhadar probably needed to explain to him how bad ‘fuck’ was in Elvish – so much dirtier than Firetongue’s innocent ‘frying’. 

‘What’s wrong?’ Maegorn must have picked up on his sighing.

‘Do you think we’ll ever learn to cooperate? Not just tolerate each other, but actually become friends?’

Maegorn put an arm around him and Rakhadar moved closer, propping the base of his horns into Maegorn’s cheekbone.

‘I don’t know,’ Maegorn said. ‘But then again, even mother changed her mind…’

‘You talked to her? What did she say?’

‘She said that after father’s death she could only think of revenge, so when Faergol promised her the demise of Jorotaja, she agreed to help. But she changed her mind two years ago, when she met Luntiar—’

‘Luntiar?’

‘Her new husband. She got pregnant with my half-brother and realized she didn’t want him to grow up to die in battle. When she told Faergol she wasn’t helping him anymore, he threatened to attack… and that’s how it all started.’

Rakhadar pressed his cheek to the cool shoulder and Maegorn kissed him between the horns. ‘Was arranging firebloods for the night this hard?’

‘Some of them, yes,’ he said. ‘Guabohr didn’t find a place at all – I saw him settle under a palm together with his jakothar.’

Maegorn winced. ‘Spending the night on the ground is a bad idea in the jungle. The least of his problems will be hordes of hungry critters.’

‘For the pain in the ass he’s been, a few ant bites will serve him right.’

‘I can imagine why none of the elves offered him shelter, but firebloods?’

‘Uncle scares firebloods as much as elves. Nobody would willingly invite him, and I don’t think he knows how to ask for help.’

After a pause, Maegorn said, ‘I know one who isn’t scared of him.’

Rakhadar propped himself up on an elbow. ‘You’re kidding, right? It’s… sarcasm?’

‘Why not? He lives alone and certainly knows how to offer help.’

‘They’re going to kill each other.’ Rakhadar settled back on Maegorn’s shoulder. ‘There is going to be a lot of fighting in the days to come.’

They lay in silence for a while, then Maegorn asked, ‘Is Jasofrah back?’

Rakhadar closed his eyes. The pain he had prohibited himself to be distracted by slithered back, plunging its venomous fangs into his heart, strangling his throat, wetting his eyes, but with Maegorn’s hand around him, even this was bearable.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But she will. She will give Rughar’s body to the Inferno Mother and come back.’

‘How do you know?’

Rakhadar pressed a palm to Maegorn’s chest, to where Maegorn’s heart was beating a clear steady rhythm – a beautiful echo of a volcanic drum.

‘She’s pregnant.’

Maegorn sighed.

‘You know, Bebukul said something about a celebration,’ he said. ‘A festival to celebrate our survival?’

‘Bebukul always talks about celebrations.’

‘Perhaps this time he’s right? We could use some reason to smile.’

Rakhadar tried to think about it, but his exhaustion was getting the better of him and he yawned. ‘Let’s discuss this tomorrow at the united council meeting.’

‘Yes.’ Maegorn yawned as well. ‘Right after Le’unn and Guabohr stop yelling at each other about transforming the catapults into digging machines while neither of them understands how to do this,’ he said, turning to his side and huddling up.

Rakhadar molded himself behind him. He lay, listening to Maegorn’s breathing. Twice he opened his mouth, and twice he closed it.

On the third time, he finally whispered, ‘ _Karachu idha oro.’_

He held his breath, waiting, until he heard a sleepy ‘ _Chod-ah tharog ida o.’_

He smiled, closing his eyes and letting his mind slip into a dream.

His wish was granted.


	21. Chapter 21

Another night on the ground. Fine.

Again, he would wake up, wet and shivering, with spiderwebs between his horns and ant bites all over his back. He didn’t care. No way was he climbing a smutty tree, even if there were a pointy-ears brave enough to offer him shelter. There wasn’t.

The tents in the fireblood war camp had been given to fireblood families that refused to live in the trees – they needed a roof above their heads more than him. So now he was sitting by a withered palm, paying little attention to the celebration, pondering whether if he dug himself into a heap of ash, the smutty critters would leave him in peace. 

The glade was filled with music and laughter, the elves and the firebloods singing and dancing, teaching each other dance moves and melodies, trying each others’ foods – celebrating their survival and the end of the chaos.

Dimheads.

Leftover demons were still lurking in the shadows, the wind could bring the ash-rain back any moment, and who said the Inferno Mother had calmed forever?

Instead of celebrating, they should be sharpening their weapons and weaving new cloaks. Maybe even buying ships from mainland. Anything but this pathetic body jerking, this laughable bawling and squalling.

Guabohr growled, and Ashta chimed in with a sympathetic snort. He put a hand between her ears and scratched the domed forehead.

It was getting darker and one by one families were leaving for their trees: firebloods, guided by the elves who had given them shelter. Weaklings. Nothing would ever make Guabohr share a house with a pointy-ears, in a bed covered with a sheet. He was not a smutty frangipani, he was a fireblood and nothing _nothing_ —

‘Hey.’

He sat up. Willed his claws to retrieve. He knew the voice. He made the point of looking straight ahead, even though what was happening on the glade was of no interest to him. But perhaps, if he ignored him long enough, the elf would leave?

But the elf just sat there, a little away, and sort of… smelled.

How could the pointy-ears still smell like a frying flower-bed, even when he fought just as much and slept just as little as Guabohr? Every time Guabohr set off for a demon raid, the elf would drag along, jumping like an overgrown grasshopper and wielding his twin toothpicks, flashing bright hair in Guabohr’s face and rolling that smutty eye like a spectroscope. It annoyed Guabohr to no end and made his fire so fierce – no demon stood a chance. One good thing – the beasts were drawn to the pointy-ears like flies. Guided by his smell, they would come, panting and drooling, and killing them off was a child’s play.

But tonight Guabohr wasn’t set for a raid, so why was the elf bothering him?

‘Here, have a drink.’

He whipped his head. The elf was sitting much closer now and was holding out a cup. Guabohr studied the ruby liquid, leaned in for a whiff and cringed. It smelled like piss.

The elf chuckled. ‘We all deserve some today.’

Careful to never look up from the cup, Guabohr took a gulp. The drink burnt his mouth and he spat out most of it, handing back the cup with disgust. Through violent coughing, he heard the elf chuckle.

Well, now that the ash-tosser had had his fun, would he leave him alone?

‘I bet it’s not very comfortable, sleeping on the ground.’

What in the name of the Inferno Mother did the pointy-ears want from him?

‘My ash is just a few trees away.’

Guabohr swallowed. Smutty elven drink. It was doing weird things to his body. His heart was racing as if he’d drunk a bottle of safflower oil and he was sweating even between his toes. He wiped his brow.

There was no way he was climbing a tree.

The elf stood, brushing off his silly pants. Guabohr’s silence was working then. The elf had lost his patience and would now leave him in peace.

‘Are you coming?’

No way, Guabohr thought. And stood.

He followed the elf stride by stride, a few steps behind, unable to take his eyes off the hair that was dancing loose against the shoulder blades. The color of the elf’s skin was easy to pin – the darkest richest bronzite, the eyes— _the eye –_ was pure carbuncle, but the hair was a puzzle – too dark for zircon and too light for cinnamon stone, with streaks of red jasper and tiger’s eye; it was hard to name _and_ _why was he even bothered with the smutty elf’s hair?_

He needed to leave. Now.

‘Need help climbing?’

Guabohr glared. Most were afraid of his glares. A few got angry. This one chuckled.

In three fluid jumps the elf disappeared among the leaves.

Guabohr took his time. He scratched Ashta behind her ears, whispering that she should wait here and that he wouldn’t be long, then made his slow way up, carefully choosing his footing and handholds until he heaved himself over the floor of the house. He looked around. Comforts, just as he had expected: a mirror, a carpet, silly pictures on the branches, flowery lanterns… A dazzlingly-white sheet on the bed.

Heavy leafy curtains dropped, separating them from the jungle outside. The room grew dark. Guabohr’s ears pressed to the sides of his head. He shouldn’t be here. The elf was an enemy. What they’d done to each other… What if the pointy-ears brought him here to stick a knife between his shoulder blades?

‘Would you mind taking a bath? You’re covered in ash.’

The elf couldn’t bring himself to kill a dirty Guabohr?

No. Of course not. Guabohr wasn’t going to die today. Firstly, this elf wasn’t one to backstab, and secondly… Guabohr wasn’t a fireling. He knew why the elf had called him. He just had a hard time believing it. Well, if the pointy-ears wanted to get fried, Guabohr wasn’t going to refuse. For something like that, he would even be kind enough to clean.

He stepped into the small room the elf was pointing to. More comforts. A large sparkly bath, smelly bubbly water, fluffy rags for wiping. When he was done, the water had turned black, muddy puddles were covering the floor and the wiping rag was ripped at his spikes. Naked and relatively clean, with the rag covering his groin, he was looking over the chaos with satisfaction when he heard the smutty chuckling – the elf was peeking inside. Was everything a joke to him? Guabohr let go of the fluffy rag and this wiped the smile off the smug face.

He followed the elf into the main room and, when offered another cup of the red drink, he refused. The elf downed it in one long gulp – his throat moved as he swallowed. Guabohr watched the bronzite-colored hand wipe the ruby-red lips, then the tongue swipe them clean.

Having set the cup on the table, the elf approached. Stood so close, Guabohr could see the pale brownish dots scattered over the cheeks and the bridge of the nose. So they were there after all. He’d thought they’d been gone, but they had simply paled.

The elf leaned in and Guabohr turned away – the smell of the red drink on the elf’s breath was churning his stomach. Instead, he pulled at the clasps of the embroidered tunic. As he was dealing with the buttons and laces, the elf made two more attempts to kiss, but Guabohr kept turning away and at last the hint was understood.

Guabohr freed the elf of his clothes – all the undershirts and underpants, so much unnecessary comfort – and sat him on the bed. The brown spots were punctuating the wide shoulders and the long arms all the way down to the wrists and he caressed them, the cool skin prickling with goosebumps under his touch.

He gave his head a shake. This was not how he usually did it, what was wrong with him? Smutty drink.

He slid to his knees and pushed the elf’s legs apart. This was something he was good at. If it were up to him, this would be all he’d ever do – no frying, just this. Frying was always painful for a best friend, at least at the beginning, and he hated that. Seeing their cringing faces, their clutched fists, knowing he was hurting them – he hated there was no other way. So he always made up for the upcoming pain with this.

He settled between the elf’s thighs and swallowed as much of him as he could. There was hissing and gasping above, and the elf jerked back, out of his reach.

‘Fuck… hot!’

Oh. Was it too hot? Were they incompatible? But… Rakhadar and his pointy-ears were doing it, weren’t they? Was this one too sensitive? Guabohr brushed his eyes over the brown body – it was covered with pale scars and old burns. It couldn’t be the case. But if this was too hot, what would frying be like?

He waited for the elf to stop panting, then let himself be pulled up and settled on the bed. The moment his shoulders touched the sheet, the elf kissed him – the jaw, the neck, the chest, the stomach. It tickled and Guabohr tensed not to giggle like a baby. Then the elf was between his legs and he didn’t feel like laughing. First, he was touched – lightly, then with more pressure; with fingers, then with lips and only then with tongue – and it was cool, but not shockingly so, and definitely pleasant. Huh. He should have probably done the same. Live and learn.

He lay, enjoying the cool touch, until the elf moved his head faster and harder, and he tightened his jaws not to moan. Guabohr _never_ moaned. But the elf’s mouth on him was flaming. Just when his stomach tensed in the peak of pleasure, the elf pulled away, leaving him balancing at the very edge. He panted, so confused at the interruption that he didn’t struggle when his legs were spread wider. But then the elf licked him there and he tensed.

No one had touched Guabohr like this.

He willed his breathing to calm. Perhaps it was the elven way. After all, elves were shameless. He should let this one have his fun before Guabohr fried him. Besides, now that he got over the confusion, it was not unpleasant. Not at all. The lips were gentle and soft like polishing pads. Oh, by the Inferno Mother, when the elf dipped his tongue inside, Guabohr’s knees started to shake.

But the tongue disappeared and, after a quick pause and a whiff of sweetness, something else touched him. A finger. Guabohr held his breath. As if feeling his tension, the elf swallowed him, sucking hard and fast; it was undiluted raw pleasure and Guabohr melted, not caring how many fingers were in him, or how they were stretching him, or how much he was enjoying being filled. He spread his legs wider – he was close, so close again, and it was the most intense fire he’d ever felt, like the world was going to end together with him. He wouldn’t last long while frying the elf, but, well, it was the pointy-ears’ own fault.

The elf pulled himself up, stretching on top, pressed his cool body tight and stuck his head in the crook of Guabohr’s neck, licking there like he was smoothing a gem. Guabohr cringed – he hadn’t cleaned himself that well there, but the elf didn’t seem to care, moaning and driving his hips into Guabohr’s impatiently, and Guabohr sighed. Fine, fine, calm down, he would get up and do it. Just a moment. His muscles were so limp, it was an effort to lift a hand. He ran it down the elf’s back, the way he would placate an excited jakothar, his fingers sliding along the tight muscles, the curve of the waist, and up the… by the Inferno Mother, this was the softest, the perkiest—

Something pressed against his entrance and his eyes snapped open. 

Smutty idiot. Dim-head. Schmuhg. How hadn’t he guessed that the pointy-ears had been preparing him to be fried? He must have been totally blinded by the drink. Nobody fried Guabohr. Nobody. He clasped the brown shoulders, barely restraining from driving the claws under the skin, but down there he was so relaxed and stretched, the elf was almost inside. The spikes around Guabohr’s elbows got tangled in the sheet – he jerked – there was a sharp ripping sound—

All movement ceased.

The elf pulled up on his elbows, rolling his smutty carbuncle, searching Guabohr’s face. Guabohr made the mistake of looking back. Into the only eye that could pierce him through like a skewer. He tried looking away and couldn’t. And the elf kept looking back. No jungle sounds were coming through the thick curtains, they lay in silence, only their loud breaths mixing in the small space between them. Guabohr listened to his body. The elf was pushing against him, but there was no pain. A spark of fear that had joined the fire of passion in his stomach quenched: he knew the elf would leave should he tell him. Should he tell him?

He’d heard stories of how a true best friend could make you howl and thought they were goat’s drum made up by weaklings. How could it be impossible to hold back a howl? And yet he felt it now, building somewhere between his lungs, unconquerable and imminent, and his body thrummed and wrenched in anticipation. He needed to let it out or he’d explode.

The elf started pulling away and Guabohr clutched the spotted shoulders tighter. Now he was holding them in place rather than pushing them away.

The elf stopped. Looked harder. Guabohr was looking back. He wasn’t going to beg. Never. All he did was swipe his thumbs across the brown collarbones, but the elf understood. Carefully, he moved. Eased in, slowly, watching him like a hawk. Guabohr closed his eyes, unable to bear such inspection. He pressed his lips. Clenched his teeth. When the elf’s hips touched his buttocks, sucked in his breath. The elf stilled, giving him time to adjust – Guabohr could feel him all the way inside. 

And then the elf fried him. Slowly. Then faster. Harder. Harder still.

When the first muffled words came, he didn’t even understand that the elf was speaking, not just purring. Then he made them out, all the ‘good’ and ‘amazing’, and ‘sweet’ and ‘perfect’, and ‘soft’ and ‘hot’. He shook his head, hushing out this nonsense – he was not good, not soft and definitely not sweet.

But the elf moved faster, and this stopped mattering.

He was biting his lips, then, when this wasn’t helping, stuck a hand between his teeth – he was not going to howl under an elf. But, ashes, was this hard: with every thrust the elf was pushing into something that was driving him out of control, and the moment cool fingers curled around him, he lost it. He buckled, went rigid, screwed up. This was so intense, it wrenched him like a wet cloth and left dry-throated and twisted. It was painful; and the few extra thrusts it took the elf to come were complete torture.

When he was able to move his hands, he pushed the elf away and turned to his side, shaking. A cool palm lay on his shoulder and he shrugged it off. He tried getting up – his spikes were still stuck in the sheet – he ripped himself free and sat up, swaying. He wiped a hand over his eyes and hissed, gathering his strength to stand.

‘Stay,’ he heard, and then a softer, ‘Guabohr…’

Guabohr winced. He had always taken pride in his name. A truly fireblood thing – much more so than Gharaf, strength bursting through the ‘hr’ in a threatening snarl. The elf ignored the ‘h’ completely, rolling the ‘r’ and making his name a silly purr. 

‘I…’ Guabohr cleared his throat, searching the corners of his memory for the scattered bits of Elvish. ‘I need check of my jakothar.’

In the bathroom, he gingerly pulled on his clothes and left, never looking back. It took him twice as much time to climb down.

Ashta sat up at his approach, sniffing and snorting, and followed him towards the fireblood camp, where they settled under the familiar palm, losing themselves in the sound of waves and the smell of salty seaweed. Guabohr buried his face in her side – something he hadn’t done for a long time – and she let him, even though his skull was now much heavier than all those years ago. Growling into the soft belly, he squeezed tufts of her fur between his fingers. He would have spewed fire, or pounded his fists, had he not been in such pain.

And yet, this was nothing compared to what his body had been through when he had been a fireling. He remembered that well. The pain, the humiliation, the fear – the shock of how someone he trusted, someone he loved, could be doing this to him. The crippling helplessness of being unable to save himself, let alone little brother. The loneliness of knowing no one was going to help – when he confessed to mother, she told him to stay strong and take it: this was the fireblood way. Rahagdja, family time. A tradition. And as a true fireblood, Guabohr respected traditions. He would scratch his wrists raw because he couldn’t make himself respect that one. It was years later that Zarbezahl would explain to him that not all fireblood traditions were worthy, that no child had to go through what he’d suffered; that even in his time, this tradition was frowned upon. So the first thing Guabohr did as a member of the council was make it punishable by death. It was too late for the two of them though. No matter how high he’d climb or how many demons he’d tear to pieces, it could not change what had happened. Or bring little brother back.

The memories flooded his mind, but why hadn’t they emerged earlier, when the elf had been frying him? Back in his youth, when he had started having best friends, Guabohr had had two who had tried to fry him and – through no wish, only by instinct – he had beaten them to a pulp. He’d decided being fried was not his way. He’d lived with this knowledge… until today.

How did he let a smutty pointy-ears – an enemy, a treacherous liar, a chuckling piece of ash…

He growled.

Never again. Never would he talk to the elf. Never look at him. Never think of him.

Guabohr wiped his eyes with a fist.

Never.

He held for a month. By the thirtieth day, his mind was worn out like an old skirt.

How could he not talk to the elf, when at every united council meeting, whatever Guabohr said, the elf said the opposite and they would argue, the elf’s patient politeness driving Guabohr to the depths of fury? How could he not look at the elf, when the pointy-ears dragged after Guabohr into every demon raid, fighting like a cave bear, jumping like a smutty fire spirit and saving Guabohr’s life at least twice? How could he not think of the elf, when… he was all Guabohr could think about?

Guabohr sighed and closed his eyes.

Just like every evening, he had settled in his usual spot, under the old palm, and just like every evening, his stomach growled. Without Jorotaja’s common meals, he turned out helpless. Sometimes elves were handing out food, but it was just as revolting as their red drink, and Guabohr refused. He wasn’t used to begging and hadn’t been able to scavenge much, so his skirt was now dangling on his hips. Once as he was adjusting it, he caught the elf’s narrowed eye on him, and it said, _had you stayed with me, I would have fed you._ Piece of ash. Guabohr would never—

‘Help, demons!’

He jumped to his feet. The scream was high-pitched, like a child’s, and it spoke in Firetongue. He darted towards the jungle, his heart racing in his throat, and froze in the bushes, searching for the source.

Why hadn’t Ashta warned him about a demon lurking so close? Why was she acting so clam, yawning by his side?

A shadow flashed towards him.

‘A demon,’ it squeaked. ‘Help!’

A tiny fireling. He ran, turning his head to look at what was chasing him.

‘A demon,’ he yelped again and… giggled.

There was more giggling, coming from behind him and in a burst of silver hair an elf girl came rushing after.

‘Arrrrgh!’ Her chubby fists were pressed to the sides of her head, her index fingers sticking forward like horns, and in a few stumbled jumps she caught him, growling in a jingly way and opening her mouth in what was supposed to be… a fire spew?

‘I you catch!’ she said in broken Firetongue. ‘Now you be demon.’

The boy stuck his fists next to his real horns and with excited growls lunged after her—

‘Krat’har!’

A fireblood approached from the direction of the fireblood camp – she must have been one of those who’d refused to live in the elven tree houses. Guabohr didn’t recognize her – she was probably from one of the mining villages.

The boy shrunk. ‘But mom—’

‘I told you not to play with her.’ She grabbed him by a horn.

‘Why not?’ he whined.

‘Why not?’ Guabohr echoed.

She finally noticed him. ‘Commander,’ she bowed.

‘Why not?’ he repeated softly. He wasn’t challenging her. He really wanted to know.

She hesitated. ‘Because… they are enemies. Smutty pointy-ears. They are treacherous liars.’

Guabohr sighed. He’d tried all that. It wasn’t helping.

She pulled the boy away, chiding him as he struggled, while the girl stood, watching them from a respectful distance, but not running away. She wiped her mouth, leaving a dirty smudge, then met Guabohr’s glance. She didn’t look scared.

‘He your friend?’ Guabohr asked in Elvish and when she nodded, said, ‘Not give up.’

‘Will not,’ she said in Firetongue and disappeared among the trees.

Darkness thickening around him, Guabohr had been walking around the housing part of the jungle for an hour before he found a tree that looked familiar: it had dusky gnarled bark, thick silvery leaves and it smelled funny. The curtain was drawn, and he couldn’t hear what was going on inside, so it was only when he climbed on top and pulled the leaves away that he saw his mistake.

Miluris and her new husband stared at him wide-eyed and unmoving, and the baby in their hands started crying.

Cursing under his breath, Guabohr tumbled down the trunk and made a few hasty steps away when Miluris caught up with him.

‘Commander,’ she said. ‘You got lost.’

It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer.

‘I could help you find your tree.’ When he didn’t react, she added, ‘I’m not going to tell anyone.’

With a huff, he folded his arms on his chest, but didn’t walk away.

‘What was the tree like?’

He hitched a shoulder. Weren’t they all the same?

‘Was it similar to ours?’

He nodded.

‘Bigger? Smaller?’ He nodded again, and she frowned. ‘Which one? Bigger or—’ She stopped, her eyes growing twice their size. ‘Follow me, commander.’

They hadn’t been walking for long before she paused in front of another tree.

‘This is it,’ she said softly and took a step back. ‘The ash of commander U’tron.’

Guabohr looked up at the tree. Its whispering foliage was a black void against the evening sky.

 _U’tron_ , he repeated in his mind, signing for Ashta to wait for him among the roots. _U’tron_ , he mouthed, climbing up the smooth trunk. _U’tron_ , he whispered, heaving himself over the floor and lifting the curtain.

‘U’tron.’

U’tron was standing in the doorway of his bathroom, damp hair over the shoulder, hands crossed on the bare chest, hips covered with the fluffy wiping rag. A spark shot along Guabohr’s spine and he tore his eyes off the white fabric. Up, towards the blue eye that studied him grimly from under the furrowed brows.

He shuffled at the entrance. Was the elf upset?

‘I… I got lost.’

U’tron narrowed his eye. ‘You did, didn’t you.’

Guabohr scratched behind his ear. ‘You need number your trees.’

‘What?’

‘One, two, three… All trees same.’

He waited to be kicked out, but when nothing happened, pointed at the bathroom and U’tron stepped aside.

Never had Guabohr scrubbed himself this hard: under the armpits, behind the ears, between his toes – he even washed his hair, using one of the jars with smelly gooey liquid that reeked of flowers and prickled his eyes – and when he was done, the water was pitch-black, but the fluffy rag came off clean.

When he stepped into the main room, U’tron was standing by the bed, holding a cup in one hand, and offering the second cup to him. The red drink. Guabohr shook his head. With a loud sigh, U’tron gulped both, then held out a small bottle - oil.

So U’tron was so angry he didn’t even want to prepare him? Fine. Guabohr grabbed the oil. He would do it himself.

As they sat on the bed, U’tron leaned in, but Guabohr’s stomach tumbled at the reek of the drink and he turned away. He moved the damp hair off U’tron’s shoulder and kissed the neck, where the skin was smooth and gentle and tasted sweet and salty at the same time. U’tron tensed and exhaled, but didn’t push him away, so Guabohr kept going. He kissed down the chest and stomach, pressed on the shoulders until U’tron lay on his back, and removed the white rag.

He did what U’tron had done last time, warming and caressing the cool skin with his fingers and lips, then with tongue, and finally used his mouth – slowly, watching the reactions. It seemed he was doing it right – U’tron was gasping and arching his back like a wild cat, and as Guabohr moved his head faster, moaned. Why did he need to be this loud? Guabohr thanked the Inferno Mother for the thick leafy curtain.

When he pulled away and sat up, U’tron kept his eye shut, just tensed his stomach with each exhale.

Fine. Guabohr was no frangipani. He uncorked the bottle. Stretching himself was weird; his ears went cold, but he ignored it. He just wanted to feel that fire again, the all-eating passion that cleared his mind and tore him in half. He straddled U’tron’s thighs, coated the cool length with oil, directed it inside. That was when the elf opened his eye. Took hold of Guabohr’s forearms. Searched his face.

The pain Guabohr felt was excruciating. By the Inferno Mother, why was it so different than last time? At least his hair was loose and shielded his face – he didn’t want U’tron to see the tears that bristled from his eyes.

After a bit he stopped, crinkling the sheet in his fists.

‘Please, let me help,’ he heard.

He dropped his head, giving up. U’tron slipped out and crawled from under him. There was some rustling and fidgeting and then something pressed to him from behind—

Guabohr jerked away, slamming into the headboard and bearing his teeth like a cornered demon.

‘Not… like this,’ he snarled in between breaths. ‘Never… like this.’

U’tron froze, hands in the air, then nodded.

‘Not like this,’ he said calmly, ‘I get it.’

He reached out and caressed Guabohr’s cheek, then ear. Guabohr didn’t fight. He waited for his breathing to slow, while the cool hands ran through his hair. He was settled on his side. By the time he was calm enough that even U’tron lying behind him didn’t feel threatening. He exhaled.

For what seemed like an eternity, he was caressed with cool fingers, all over, from neck to hips, and it wasn’t half as annoying as before. Then U’tron pressed, molding himself against his back, covering him like a fireproof cloak. It was stupid and unnecessary – Guabohr wasn’t a child – but he didn’t dare move. Not when U’tron rubbed his ringed nipples, not when he brushed his shaft, not even when he slipped a hand between his buttocks.

Only when the elf sucked on his neck did Guabohr reach back to touch the soft hair. He was melting again, losing his ability to analyze whether his actions were worthy of a fireblood, so, shamelessly, he pushed back into those fingers and growled with pleasure.

Before he knew it, U’tron was inside him, his body opening and accepting without waiting for his permission, throbbing and begging to be fried. At the first thrusts, U’tron was just breathing into his ear, but soon he was at it again, praising Guabohr’s softness and sweetness, and telling him how amazing he felt inside – and Guabohr couldn’t take it.

‘Stop… this,’ he panted.

U’tron stilled. ‘This?’

‘No. Stop speak… words…’ Guabohr wriggled his hips. ‘Not stop this.’

U’tron obeyed. Fried him silently, breathing hard and biting his ear, pushed, changing speed and angle, until Guabohr clenched, ripping the sheet with his spikes, and howled into the pillow. This was even better than the first time.

He closed his eyes. The softness of the sheet under him was lulling, the coolness of U’tron’s skin still pressing to him was calming. His body begged him to stay. But he couldn’t. It would be awkward. It would be weak. It would be wrong. He lay, waiting for this temporary madness to go away, mindlessly brushing his fingers over the silk of the sheet. His fingers touched a bit of roughness, and he studied it: the month-old tears had been patched up thoroughly with silvery thread. Below them, today’s holes were gaping wide, showing the mattress.

‘I teared your sheet again.’

A chuckle came from behind. ‘I’ll patch it up.’

Guabohr’s throat went thick. ‘You get tired one day.’

He expected another chuckle, but there was silence.

He sat up.

‘Stay.’

Guabohr ran a hand over his eyes.

‘I-I need check of my jakothar.’

There was an annoyed little sound, like a humph. ‘If you care this much about him – next time, why don’t you just bring him into bed with us?’

Guabohr frowned. U’tron wanted to sleep with a jakothar? He twisted his neck: assessed the raised eyebrow, the quirking corner of the mouth. Oh, U’tron was joking.

‘Why you joke about…’ Guabohr wasn’t sure about the Elvish for ‘frying’ – he knew ‘fuck’, but Rakhadar had explained how rude the word was – ‘…about bed things? Not do this.’

U’tron took a deep breath.

‘Guabohr.’ He touched Guabohr’s arm. ‘You have rules. I respect this. You prefer some positions to others; you don’t joke about,’ he rolled his eye, ‘bed things. It’s fine. But then it would be fair if I also had a rule. When we’re in bed, I want to be able to say whatever I want to say. You don’t shut me up. Can you live with this? When I feel good, I need to say it.’

A wave of warmth rippled through Guabohr. U’tron felt good with him.

He nodded.

‘Good,’ U’tron said. ‘Because I promise you I won’t be able to hold it back tomorrow when you take me.’

Guabohr’s heart thumped. _Take you?_

But what he asked was, ‘Tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow,’ U’tron said almost menacingly. ‘Because my ass has pride and it won’t wait for a month to be fucked.’

This time Guabohr understood it was a joke. He laughed, throwing his head back and holding his stomach. He was still chuckling as he was settling back on the bed.

‘It’s she,’ he said, smiling and closing his eyes.

‘Hmm?’

‘My jakothar is she.’

U’tron was the first thing he saw when he woke.

Sitting on a chair in front of a mirror, the elf was scooping translucent goo from a small crystal jar and rubbing it into the scarred skin of his missing eye.

Oh how he looked when it was still there. Haughty, proud, gorgeous. And smiling, always smiling. Laughing at Guabohr, tricking him like a baby, luring him into traps, stealing his towers, and drilling him with those blue eyes, punching holes in his chest. It turned Guabohr into a demon: he wanted to tear that face to shreds; he dreamt of carving out those carbuncles and wearing them on his heart like a badge; he swore he’d make the pointy-ears stop smiling – but when the spike of his sabre slashed against that eye, he felt like it was his face that had been maimed. He spent a week in the healing cave, thrashing in fever and hallucinations, and when he woke, he prayed that the elf had died, that his torture was over.

It was only the beginning.

The elf did stop smiling though, growing calm, serious, quiet; even the spots on his face disappeared. At the negotiations, Guabohr never looked higher than the long straight nose, watching instead those bright lips and wide cheekbones, wishing he could give up his own eyes never to see any of this again. So he didn’t hold a grudge against U’tron for slashing his face – it ended the war and allowed Guabohr to forget him… except for the times it was Guabohr’s turn to supervise the monthly trade and now and then a blue carbuncle would glisten in a pile of gems. Sometimes it would be the first gem he’d give away, sometimes it would be the only one he’d keep to himself.

But no stone compared to the real thing.

Guabohr sighed. He lay quietly, watching U’tron apply the potion, the familiar flowery smell filling the room.

‘It hurt?’ he asked.

U’tron rubbed some more. ‘No.’ He turned. ‘Yours?’

Guabohr smiled sadly. ‘All time. Especially in rain season.’

Their eyes met. U’tron picked up the jar and sat on the bed, the flowery smell getting stronger, but bearable. Guabohr sat up, presenting his face. He felt strangely giddy. U’tron scooped the potion and carefully rubbed it into his scar – from the chin to the brow. It was cool at first but dried quickly. It tingled a little and Guabohr smiled.

U’tron swallowed. His eye moved up the scar and then down, pausing at the lips. He took an audible breath, darted a glance up and then he slammed his mouth into Guabohr’s for a heartbeat and flinched away, as if expecting a blow. But Guabohr wasn’t fighting. So U’tron leaned in again.

This time he pressed his lips properly. Gently. Tilting his head for a better angle.

Guabohr never cared for comforts. They were a nuisance, like the sheet that his spikes tangled in, but this kiss… was a necessity. It set off an inferno in his stomach. He needed it more than food, or sleep, or oil – he needed it for survival. He wrapped his arms around U’tron and kissed back with hunger.

When he paused for a breath, U’tron chuckled. It was a different chuckle, dazed and husky.

‘So you’re not entirely opposed to this?’ When Guabohr shook his head, he asked, ‘Then why…?’

‘Your red drink.’

‘The wine?’

‘It smell. I not like it.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ U’tron pressed a hand to his cheek, rubbed his cheekbone with a thumb. ‘Well then…’ he whispered, leaning in again.

The smutty trumpets announced half-morning. Guabohr hated trumpets.

‘I’ll see you in the evening after the council,’ U’tron said, springing to his feet. He pulled on the tunic, that was studded with silver flowers like a night sky with stars, and looked Guabohr’s still naked body up and down. ‘Maybe even quickly before that.’ 

Guabohr was on his way to the meeting when he was grabbed and pulled behind the trunk of a tree. He didn’t mind. Nor did he mind U’tron’s arms winding around him, or the soft lips sucking on his. Why couldn’t they could do this instead of yelling at each other at the meetings? He pressed harder, showing how much he wanted this too, and U’tron growled into his mouth, rubbed his hips—

The steps and the voices were so close, they could have heard them breathing, had they not been making so much noise themselves: Rakhadar and Maegorn and princess – already bickering – walking swiftly past them towards the royal tree.

Guabohr pressed a hand over U’tron’s mouth – the elf moaned loud enough to be heard on mainland – and waited as the voices and the steps trailed off among the trees.

He released his breath, then turned, frowning.

‘You elf,’ he said. ‘You have ears. Why not say they are come?’

‘Sorry,’ U’tron said with a lazy smile. ‘I was distracted.’

He leaned in with more kissing, but Guabohr was having none of it.

‘You want they know about we?’ he grunted. ‘You want they see?’

U’tron’s smile fell. ‘Would it be wrong?’ 

Unbelievable. Guabohr shook his head.

‘Wrong – yes,’ he barked.

‘Why? Maegorn and Rakhadar are doing it.’

Guabohr huffed. He couldn’t think of a specific law that said them frying each other was blasphemous, but it was certainly breaking all traditions.

‘They marry. They love,’ he said, then swiped a hand between them. ‘We enemy. Commander. This is traitoring. If it find out – we punished.’

‘By whom? Guabohr, there is nothing wrong—’

‘It wrong for me!’

U’tron averted his eyes and said nothing.

Guabohr stifled a roar. He knew the face – when the elf disagreed, he always grew this quiet and disappointed, as if Guabohr had killed a butterfly in front of him. It annoyed Guabohr to no end. The rule was simple: you disagree – you yell, you disagree more – you yell louder; how difficult was that? Somehow this never worked with U’tron.

Guabohr rubbed the skin around his horns.

‘I not want this please,’ he said in a softer voice, touching U’tron’s hand. ‘For me tradition important. I no break it. You understand maybe?’

U’tron looked at him. Gave a small mirthless chuckle. ‘I understand… maybe.’ He turned towards the big tree. ‘Let’s go. We have catapults to fight about.’

‘You let her treat you this way?’

‘Speak Elvish, uncle—’

Guabohr turned to Le’unn. ‘The catapults are our. We need they for dig ash off the castle.’ He slammed his fist against the table top and all the elves in the negotiation room flinched. ‘You promise!’

‘Indeed, that was the initial agreement, but, commander, you saw the damage to our plantations. They need to be rid of ash just as much.’

‘You are thief—’

‘We are not stealing the catapults, simply asking for half of the machines for cleaning the plantations—’

‘You liar! You not ask they for clean, you dig our mines, steal our gems—’

‘You think we are scheming to rob you at a time like this? With half the harvest destroyed by ash, our survival is our only focus. You are paranoid—’

‘And you are traitor!’ Guabohr jumped up. ‘All elves!’

Instead of yelling back, Le’unn gasped, then bit her lips, suppressing a smile.

Guabohr frowned.

‘You think you fool us with your smiles?’ He yelled louder. ‘We know you, cheaters.’

Others were now gasping, too, and looking away, covering their mouths with their hands. A surge of fire washed over Guabohr, paling his cheeks and enflaming his stomach. Smutty pointy-ears. How dare they laugh at him.

‘You will sorry,’ he roared. ‘You no fuck with firebloods!’

Le’unn choked on a laugh, others giggled. Even Rakhadar’s lips were trembling. What was happening?

‘What is—’

U’tron stood. Calm and unsmiling, he leaned across the table. All eyes watching, he unhooked a silver flower that was stuck in Guabohr’s top and fastened it into the gap in the field of identical flowers on his own chest.

Guabohr’s ears went cold.

Le’unn cleared her throat. ‘You were saying something about fucking firebloods, commander?’

The room exploded with laughter.

Guabohr kicked away his chair and stormed out.

* * *

The night was beautiful – cool and fresh, calm and gentle. A good night to love and be loved.

Not for him.

U’tron gave the plate of pepperpie an evil eye. He’d given up his best baking dishes to Farsah, Irillion’s fiancee, for the recipe; sneezed his ass off making this uneatable pile of spice; burnt his fingers lifting it up the tree…

He cursed at his own stupidity. How could he still be so naive?

He never thought he’d be willing to let someone in his life after Arian had died. Getting to know someone just to lose him later – he didn’t want to go through that again. Instead, he focused on fighting demons. His life became a series of attacks and diversions – an intricate game of chess with an extremely worthy opponent. He would spend days analyzing Guabohr’s actions, trying to predict his next step, planning baits that would work and ploys the demon wouldn’t expect. After a while, without noticing, he got into Guabohr’s head so deep that when Maegorn joked they’d grown to know each other like long-term husbands, he didn’t laugh. He got scared. But then he made a close acquaintance with Guabohr’s scythe and that should have ended the stupid sentiment for good. It did. Until the time the demon gave up a tower to save the lives of his soldiers. Or the time he challenged his niece after she, just as hatred-crazed as her mother, wanted to collapse a mine, full of elven spies as well as fireblood workers. Or the time he nearly drowned pulling his jakothar out of a swamp. There were other stories, too, that U’tron witnessed himself or read reports of, and each of them he stored in the secret little drawers of his mind until they overflowed, filling his heart, too. And he wasn’t used to lying to himself.

That’s why when Maegorn told him that Guabohr, rejected by both elves and firebloods, had been taking shelter under an old palm, he knew what to do.

He didn’t expect Guabohr to answer his feelings, but the way the fireblood opened to him told U’tron they were both old wounds in need of some frangipani balm. The only thing that stood between them was Guabohr’s inexplicable fear of breaking some non-existent traditions. Didn’t he see that their revealed feelings evoked nothing but laughter – no mention of a tradition being broken, of resentment, of punishment?

And yet it was clear Guabohr wasn’t coming.

Still, U’tron waited until the stars came out, and only then climbed down looking for Maegorn.

He found him sitting by his tree, wielding a menacing-looking brush along the back of his jakothar.

‘You still have the bottle of poison I gave you the day before your wedding?’ He needed something truly strong to get the horned bastard out of his head.

Pausing the brush over a burr, Maegorn lifted an eyebrow. ‘Everything is that bad?’

U’tron sat down – close, but at a reasonable distance from the beast. ‘I just… Are they all like this or am I this damn lucky?’

A burr particularly stubborn, Maegorn leaned down to pick it out. ‘All like what?’

‘Like… bullheaded. Thick. Shelled, like a damn tortoise.’

Maegorn pressed his lips, untangling the tiny hooks out of the thick fur. ‘Some of them are. But you did pick the prickliest one.’

The bur struggled, then came off. Maegorn handed him the ball of hooks and he rolled it on his palm.

‘I don’t think I have the patience. Whatever I do, I only rub him the wrong way.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t be the only one who tries.’

Putting the brush away, Maegorn stood. ‘Come, I’ll show you something.’

The three of them went through the dark jungle towards the beach, until Maegorn paused in front of a tent at the edge of the fireblood camp. Signaling for silence, he pulled a flap away.

‘It’s a private process, they don’t like being seen like this.’

U’tron peeked inside. Guabohr was sitting on the ground, his elbow lying flat on a granite slab. Rakhadar stood above, a small axe in his hand. A flash of metal – a swing of the axe – a sick hacking sound. U’tron flinched. He nearly rushed inside, but Guabohr didn’t seem hurt. A piece of him fell off with a thud. A spike. He barked and Bebukul barked back. U’tron only now noticed the boy, who sat at Guabohr’s other side, holding his other elbow and grinding at the stumps with a long shiny stick. 

Maegorn leaned down to his ear. ‘Guabohr asked them to hurry and Bebukul said that had he been doing it regularly it wouldn’t be taking this long.’

U’tron stood. He patted Maegorn on the shoulder and went back into the jungle.

Taking a knife out of his boot, he cut a flat piece off a wide branch. Then he fastened it to the trunk of his ash and carved a large thick rune on the tablet.

 _One_.


End file.
